The Outcasts, the Heroes
by i-swear-we-were-sufinite
Summary: Emil Steilsson knows it's useless to question why a freak accident lands him in Norway with an aunt and uncle he's never heard of, and a mysterious young man with answers to his impossible questions. What he wants to know is why he can burn with a single touch . . . and why it puts him in such grave danger. Cover art by nativekawaiians.
1. Chapter 1

**(A/N: Hello there! This will be another multi-chapter story. I do not own Hetalia, as always. This story shifts viewpoints, usually from chapter to chapter, but in the occasion that a chapter is not marked with a character name, the perspective continues from the character of the previous chapter. Often this will be in the case of Iceland, who is the main character in this story. Thank you for reading!)**

_Emil_

On a brisk summer morning, a teenage boy sat on a beaten-up brown suitcase. The couple ahead of them had too many bags for just two young adults, and he was forced to suffer the consequences of their inadequate packing skills. The boy sighed, waving away the ashy scent of cigarette smoke. His eyelids were heavy with sleep; it wasn't every day he woke up at four o'clock in the morning to be ushered to an airport, handed a boarding pass, and sent away.

He did not know how it happened. At first, his mom was accusing him of cheating on a test. The next, she was in the hospital, suffering from third-degree burns. He stared at his hands as he waited; they were as pale as the rest of him. He quickly looked away, wondering how long they'd stay that way.

He had grabbed her arm firmly. It was a normal response for an angry teenager. What wasn't normal, however, was the sizzling sound or the smell of burning flesh. Her scream was ear-curdling; his hands were fiery. Their pale complexion seemed to have been replaced with the hottest lava. He released her immediately, screaming.

_"EMIL—STEILSSON! WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE? CALL AN AMBULANCE, BOY!" _If he hadn't been at a loss for words, he would have shouted that he couldn't pick up the phone, for he ceased to be safe. It was still a miracle how he managed to call the hospital and take his mother away. He'd managed to calm down a minute later, enough to feel as though the incident did not happen, if there weren't burn marks on his mother's arm.

Emil often kept a level head. It took a lot to make him angry; many people in his life regarded this as some sort of exceptional talent. Some people didn't think he was even capable of anger. It was only when the accusations came when Emil lost all control. Now, as a tall man with a brown beard checked his bags, he couldn't help but wonder why his mother even made such a grave mistake. The doctors at the hospital said that the skin grafts would take a while, and as Emil's father died a long time before he was born, he was sent to live with an aunt and uncle he'd never heard of in Norway. Nobody told him how long he was going to stay there, but he knew he probably wouldn't see the beautiful mountains of Iceland for a while. _She's terrified of me. Of course she doesn't want me in her house anymore. _For the first time ever, Emil found himself doubting _what_ he was. It was clear that he wasn't human.

He wasn't without money. His mother gave him a credit card to buy whatever he needed. Emil didn't know how to feel about her. She didn't show any signs of hatred or disgust, yet here he was, sitting on an airplane with a Starbucks in hand, ready to take off. Perhaps he should just feel nothing. No sense of gratitude, no anger, nothing to provoke him or cause tears or make him smile. Doing so would probably be vital to venturing into the unknown.

It was interesting to think of this whole ordeal as an adventure, like the ones Emil would embark on as a little kid. Instead of fighting giants in the mountains that surrounded his house, he would fly across the sky to a distant land, to face relatives who have never been household names. In the mind of a little boy, Norway was adventure itself. But Emil gave up his make-believe quests years ago. He sighed, staring once more at his hands. How many more people would he hurt in his lifetime? He didn't ask for anything like this, and he couldn't think of any logical explanation as to why he could even do something so ridiculous. It was as if he had decided to step into a comic book one day, and now he was unsure if he was still trapped inside.

The plane left the ground, taking Emil away from everything he'd ever known, with only his favorite books to keep his conflicting thoughts from eating him alive.

The plane landed safely in Oslo, on time, as expected. Everything around him seemed normal. Passengers stood up and began to remove their luggage from overhead bins, congesting the aisles of the plane. Emil frowned in annoyance; his ticket put him at a window seat, making the task of leaving the plane even harder. _I can be patient, _he told himself, watching as a line of people slowly walked off. Though his patience wasn't always high, he could usually wait. The most he felt with impatience was frustration, which he regarded as separate from anger. At this point, he tried to avoid anger at all costs. Maybe, if he could live his life detached from rage, it would be as if nothing strange had ever happened to him. He could forget, and all of this could seem like a crazy dream. So he'll suck it up. He'll live in Norway, and return home when his mom recovered from her mysterious accident. Emil left the plane with higher hopes than before. A month or so in Norway with complete strangers . . . an adventure. Who knows? It could even turn out to be fun.

The second task in the quest of Emil Steilsson was to find both his bag and his family members. The first part was relatively easy; he had no trouble reaching his flight's baggage claim or finding his battered suitcase.

But where would he find people he had never heard of?

He'd been given two names: Aleksander and Erika Bondevik, but nothing else to go off of. He hadn't the faintest idea what they looked like, or if they were waiting for him, or if they knew his name. They had to; they were supposed to pick him up from the airport! Emil figured that the best idea was to wait for them by his flight's carousel, figuring they'd recognize his flight.

It took an hour for Emil to notice a man and a woman, accompanied by a bored-looking young adult. The woman's brunette hair was graying and her skin was wrinkly, but she smiled when she caught Emil's eyes. The man was tall and stood off to the side, much like the young adult, whose pale blonde hair and dark blue eyes gave off an aura of mystery. He seemed completely unrelated to the smiling woman or the towering man, which only convinced the Icelandic teen that he was watching the wrong couple.

"Excuse me, are you Emil Steilsson?" she asked in Emil's second language. "I've been told you speak English fluently. I'm sorry I don't know any Icelandic, but—"

"It's fine. I'm Emil. I'm assuming you are the Bondeviks?" It felt very awkward to Emil. He didn't like talking to adults; the conversations he had with his mother and her friends were all so obviously forced, so terribly superficial that he grew a strong distaste for it. What was worse was making small talk with strangers. Maybe after a couple of days, they'd learn to leave him alone.

"Welcome to Norway, Emil! We're all very excited to have you!" The looks on the men's faces showed otherwise. Each wore an expression of pure indifference, just like Emil. "I'm Aunt Erika, this is Uncle Aleksander—" she gestured towards the tall brunette, who nodded. "—and this is our son, Lukas." He gave Emil the world's most awkward wave. Emil wasn't sure how to respond. "Lukas, why don't you take his bag?"

"It's fine," Emil insisted, but the young adult shrugged and grabbed the old handle of his suitcase. He walked about a foot behind the family as he followed Erika to their car, where they would drive for two hours in heavy airport traffic until they reached the Bondevik's house, where he would stay for the month. He took the back seat of their silver mini-van, though there wasn't much purpose in doing so. The seat next to Lukas was open, yet he'd rather sit in the back with his suitcase.

Emil loved solitude more than anything else. He didn't see a point in having a lot of friends. Every day, he walked outside and dared to venture into the mountains and valleys around his family's property. Perhaps it was his upbringing, living with only his mother a vast landscape, but he couldn't stand crowds, or loud conversations, or anything that interrupted his wandering thoughts. He was slowly becoming an expert photographer, and he planned to invest in a future of documenting nature through pictures. His prized possession, the professional camera his mother bought him for his sixteenth birthday, rested safely in his brown suitcase. He would definitely be using it in beautiful Norway.

Today, his thoughts didn't venture as much as they usually did. Every part of his mind ached to know how long this visit would last. When his mother spoke to him, she sounded tense, and only told him about what he was supposed to do at the airport. He was under the impression that she loved him. Maybe she was using a bad situation to expand his horizons. She promised to call frequently, and she trusted him with a credit card. He cursed at himself. Didn't he agree to feel nothing? Did he have no idea how dangerous his anger was? As if a freak accident wasn't enough to prove it. Once it happened, he didn't even bother denying it. His mother was in the hospital, because of him. All he had to do was keep calm, and everything would be normal again, even if he were some sort of demon. He didn't think he'd be able to take it if he believed anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

_Lukas_

He had been apprehensive when his parents told him that a teenaged boy from Iceland would be living with them for a while. When he asked them how long, they said that they didn't know, and that the boy could be expected to live with them for the entire summer. According to them, his mother had burned her hand badly while cooking, and her only son had nowhere else to stay.

"She really has no neighbors or friends who could take him on?" He wasn't angry, he was curious as to why someone who lived in Iceland needed to go here.

"The Steilssons were our closest friends, but the father passed away many years ago. Though we haven't kept in touch, we are glad to open our home to Emil." That name was what confused him most of all. He swore he'd heard it before, even though he had never met anyone with that name. _Emil Steilsson . . . _the last name was foreign; somehow, it didn't feel right. He shook his head. How could the name of a person he'd never met seem wrong?

He brought himself back many painful years, until he was six years old, sweeping the chimney at Ms. Britta's Home for Children. He shuddered; every bad memory led back to that orphanage, to the taunts and jeers of the other kids, to the sound of the caretaker's voice, begging him to try harder. At what, he never knew. Most of his memories of the dingy house were painful. This one may have been worst of all, though it was vague and seemed irrelevant to his life today. Still, he went back to the time he was a little boy, blonde hair not yet tamed, coughing from the smoke and the ashes of cleaning the fireplace. Surely, a six-year-old shouldn't have been doing this job, but the older kids never liked him much, and all of them had taken simpler, safer work.

"Play with me." He turned around and saw a younger boy with a mass of hair so pale it was white. He smiled at the sight of his brother, who made his darkest days even brighter. "Stop sweeping."

"You know I can't! I have work here. Everyone starts work at five years old. You're only three; you should be in the nursery." The little boy pouted and walked over to him. His tiny hands grabbed the bristly brush and began to walk towards the fireplace.

"Help," he said, stabbing the sides of the brick. Lukas laughed before he took the brush out of the little boy's hands.

"Go play with the other boys. I can do this by myself. You're going to get hurt!"

"No," the boy insisted stubbornly. "I don't like them." Lukas didn't like any of the other orphans, either, but he had a reason: all of them hated him. They all thought he was insane, and he didn't know why. But his little brother was only three. Surely, one doesn't learn to hate until he or she is older.

"I have to work now. It'll take a while, but I'll play with you when I'm done—"

he heard snickering from behind him. Lukas's little heart began to race; he swept even faster, determined to seem absorbed in his work. If he were working, they'd have to leave him alone . . .

"Is Loopy Lukas seeing fairies again? Better watch out; they might get their little wings caught in the fireplace!" He wanted to cry. His brother must've run off, because he was nowhere to be found. Even though he was three years old, his presence would have provided some comfort.

"Go away! I'm cleaning!" Lukas hadn't learned how to sound threatening. He yearned to know; he couldn't spend every day taunted because nobody else could see what he saw. _They're the crazy people, _he thought. _They don't see the world right. _They denounced the existence of mythical creatures that Lukas knew existed—because he'd _seen_ them. They talked to him at night, they insulted the mean kids for him; they were Lukas's friends. He swept harder, trying to distract himself from what would come next. "Who were you talking to?" An innocent question—and it had an answer they would accept.

"My brother, Emil," he told them, only to receive a couple of blank stares. "If you tell me _he's_ made-up, too, I am going to . . ." yet they laughed at him. Lukas didn't think he'd ever been as angry as he was then. "_I _know _he's real! We arrived at this dump together!" _Only a few of the other kids remained laughing. The ones who did felt their taunts dying away. Suddenly, they began to whisper to each other, enraging Lukas further. _Sweep the ashes, _he told himself, but chores never distracted him as much as he wanted them to.

"Should we tell him?" One asked, voice sounded somewhat concerned.

"No," a particularly cruel kid with bright hazel eyes insisted. "It's funnier if we don't."

"I think we should," a curly-haired kid with a square face said. "We should tell Ms. Britta and she can put him in the hospital wing. I don't think he actually knows how mental he is."

"I am _not_ insane!" Lukas muttered. "Stop whispering about secrets you're not going to tell me!"

"Emil was adopted a year ago, Lukas. You'd think you'd remember when your own brother left." They were teasing him. They had to be. Lukas felt his tears trying to break free, but he didn't want to give these kids any more reasons to insult him.

"Stop trying to mess with me! He was right next to me, and he wants me to play with him, and it's only taking longer now that you're here—"

"Give it up, Lukas, he's not here anymore!" _Emil, come back! _The tiny, white-haired child was nowhere to be found.

"He's probably in the nursery!" Lukas insisted.

"What is with all this commotion?" he spotted Ms. Britta walking towards the group. Relief flooded him; she had to stop these kids from messing with him. Though she didn't believe in fairies or trolls, she had to believe him now. His brother was with him. He had to be.

"Ms. Britta, Lukas has gone crazy again!" She sighed; by now, she was used to denying the truth that Lukas saw, but no one else did.

"What is it this time? There's nothing wrong with a little imagination, kids—"

"It's his brother, Miss." Her tired-looking gray eyes widened. "He thinks Emil's still with us."

"But he is, Miss! He is, I saw him, and I have to finish my chores so I can play with him!" His blue eyes were full of pleading. "Please. Tell them they're wrong!" But Ms. Britta remained silent. She frowned and shook her head, shattering Lukas's heart. "Tell them they're wrong!"

"Lukas . . . don't you remember? Last year, on October eighth . . . a couple adopted him. And you didn't even cry! You just watched, without shedding a single tear . . . oh, _Lukas_ . . ." He did not remember that. He shook his head, his eyes wide with shock. Nobody snickered, or laughed, or whispered. Ms. Britta still asked them to leave the room.

He cried. Never had he cried as much as he did then. Short, stout Ms. Britta held him, but he wanted to run away. Even she had deceived him; how come nobody had told him? But she had to be lying if he'd seen him! He came to Lukas regularly, and he sang and laughed with his brother. He couldn't have left. He told all of this to Ms. Britta, who lent him a sympathetic ear.

"Lukas, I know you have a huge imagination—"

"I don't imagine things, Miss. They're real."

"Oh Lukas, you may want them to be, but I'm afraid to say that you can't escape reality for a better world! Life can be hard, but it can also be nice, oh Lukas, if only I could take you away from this place . . . if only they'd taken you with Emil . . ."

"Where am I? I thought I was sleeping in the guest room; how did I get here?" His past explained nothing. The Emil that slept on a cot on his bedroom floor was Icelandic, not Norwegian, yet his extremely pale hair haunted him. He tried to clear his head; maybe he was imagining things. Maybe he looked completely different, maybe his name wasn't even Emil.

"We have a flooding problem in this house. The guest room's in the basement, and my mother heard the water in the middle of the night. Had she not grabbed you and put you in my room, you would have woken up covered in water." Maybe there was nobody here but Lukas. "Sorry."

"It's okay. I don't really care about where I sleep." He shrugged and stood up, his hair sticking up everywhere. If this Emil wasn't real, Lukas shouldn't be seeing him now. After years of combined suppression and schizophrenia drugs, it would be ridiculous to find his long-lost brother _here_. "What are you looking at?" his voice was monotone. It differed from the sound of the little boy from the orphanage. Maybe Emil never even existed.

"Nothing," Lukas insisted, though it was obvious that he was staring at the stranger—or was he a stranger?—that stood in front of him. "Have we met before?"

Emil blinked, confused. "No." He left it at that. The question was weird, yet Lukas had to ask it. He was sick of the constant confusion that plagued his childhood, that confronted him now, and that would destroy his happy life with the Bondeviks if the nature of his mind were revealed.

Lukas Bondevik wasn't schizophrenic. He wasn't insane, either. He didn't know what he had, and he didn't know how long it would affect him.


	3. Chapter 3

_Emil_

He honestly didn't know what to make of this family. Why put a guest in a room with a known flooding problem? He would have to ask the parents. Lukas didn't seem like he was involved in that, but he spoke about it like it was nothing. And the way he stared at him . . . like he was examining him, judging him. It was one of the reasons why he didn't like people much. Maybe today, he'd get out of the house, take a few pictures, explore the area a bit. He desperately hoped that the Bondeviks wouldn't try to bond with him.

"Good morning, Emil. You may have whatever you like for breakfast." He waved to Mrs. Bondevik, who watched the news while sipping orange juice. The report was in Norwegian, but she put on Icelandic subtitles when Emil asked. He liked to watch the news, even if he made no move to fix the world's problems. He just liked to be aware.

"_Swedish police are still on the lookout for Berwald Oxenstierna, refugee from St. John's Centre for Youth Correction. Oxenstierna, aged 20, escaped on April nineteenth of last year. Authorities have speculated that Oxenstierna is dangerous; the night he escaped, eleven security guards lost all ability to move. To this day, none of them had ever recovered. Oxenstierna is expected to have fled to Finland, but Norwegians should be aware . . ." _The screen showed a security video of an incredibly tall man escaping through a window, with the eleven unmoving guards. When the clip ended, the news showed the profile of a man with short, pale-blonde hair, no expression, and the most terrifying glare Emil had ever seen.

"So, is there anything you want to do today?" It took a moment for him to register Mrs. Bondevik's question. He shrugged. "The plumbers are coming, to fix the flooding issue in the guest room. I'm so sorry about that; I completely forgot about it! So, they'll be at our house today, and I thought we could all go out and have fun." Mr. Bondevik entered the room, coffee in hand. Absently, he poured some for Lukas and Emil, who accepted it. He drank it black, as he had a strange affinity for the bitter taste. "Do you want to shop, or go to any museums, or anything that comes to mind?" Emil mentally groaned. He would have to bond with this family after all.

"I dunno," Emil shrugged, suggesting nothing. He hadn't researched the area, and he hadn't planned on socializing with his mother's friends. His mind wandered to the frightening Swedish man on the news. _Eleven security guards lost all ability to move_ . . . what did he drug them with? The convict had to be a chemistry genius. _Did he even drug them? _Emil pushed the thought from his head. _Just because you have weird abilities doesn't mean other people do. _Somehow, that thought scared him even more than the first.

"Well, the last time you were here, you were about four years old! You can't possibly remember much; we need to take you sightseeing!" For a split second, Lukas's eyes widened. Emil swore he saw it, but when he looked at the young adult again he appeared bored, expressionless, tired. "Your mother told me how much you love photography; you could take a couple of pictures—"

"Yeah, but I'd prefer to do that _alone_." Emil hadn't meant to respond to that. He just heard an idea he didn't like. "Er, I usually do that alone." Mrs. Bondevik did not look offended; instead, she nodded.

"I don't know what's with you boys. Lukas spends all his time by himself. He has no friends, and I don't see how."

"I don't need them," Lukas insisted. "Did you buy more of my medication, like I asked you to?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I completely forgot! I was so busy preparing for Emil's arrival that I—"

"It's okay, just needed to know." Emil was under the impression that Lukas was more upset than he led on.

"Why don't you and Lukas shop in the town square? There's a lot of bookstores; do you like to read, Emil? Lukas likes it. And you can also check out the boutiques, and there's a candy store . . ." Figuring Lukas wouldn't talk to him, Emil found this to be an excellent idea, though shopping bored him. Even so, he had agreed to the plan. He stood with the pale blonde at the start of a sidewalk, watching crowds of people walk by. Emil shoved his hands into his pockets and began to walk forward. _This is awkward, _he thought, checking to make sure Lukas followed him. He wondered if he even had to stay with him.

"Can we stop at the drugstore?" Lukas asked suddenly. "My parents don't quite understand just how important my medication is."

"What do you even have?" Emil wondered. Lukas thought for a moment, his face blank.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" Lukas walked ahead of him, probably to lead him in the direction of the drugstore.

"I can't describe it." Emil was certain that this man was the strangest person he had ever met. How was there medication for an indescribable condition? He stared at the back of Lukas's head, noticing an odd little curl sticking out. Lukas had no bounce in his step, and his pace was slow, yet Emil felt urgency in his every step. He figured he wouldn't ask any more questions about Lukas. Emil didn't think he could ever understand him.

Emil wandered around the drugstore as Lukas bought the medication he needed for his odd condition. He tried to pay as little attention to him as possible; he didn't want to trouble himself with other people's secrets. As he walked aimlessly, he picked up a box of mints, figuring he'd pay for them when Lukas was ready to leave. He walked further and caught sight of the week's newspaper, and found the same runaway from TV on the front page. Curiously, he picked it up and began to read:

_Over a year ago, Berwald Oxenstierna, age 20, escaped from St. John's Centre for Youth Correction, a private institution that specializes in correction of homosexuality. The institution is not government-sponsored and its inhumane treatment of patients has generated much hatred from the general population of Sweden. The controversy over St. John's, however, is no greater than the debate over the search for Oxenstierna, who is alleged to have put eleven security guards into a comatose. _

"Ready to go?" Emil found Lukas standing behind him with a plastic bag in hand. He folded the newspaper, which attracted Lukas's attention.

"Do you know how he did it?" Emil asked, though he didn't expect him to know. Lukas shrugged.

"Does it matter? He's not coming _here_ any time soon." The teenager shrugged as he put the newspaper back on the rack. He followed Lukas to the door, only to have an extremely loud beeping noise cut through the air.

"Did you pay for that?" Emil shouted over the alarm. Lukas narrowed his eyes.

"Of course I did; I'm not an idiot!" A tall, acne-covered employee walked over to the two boys, his face fixed in a threatening scowl.

"Empty your pockets and your bag." With a jolt of horror, Emil found the tin of mints in his pants pocket. He had forgotten to pay, and he didn't like the look on the employee's face.

"Thief!" he exclaimed, pointing to the white-haired boy. "Do you think you're rebellious, stealing from a drugstore?" Emil felt his face redden.

"I'm not a thief, and I was going to pay!" He clutched the mints angrily in his hand, only to find that the box was melting . . . Emil gasped. Why was he so stupid, getting angry in front of two strangers? It was a simple accusation—but he was a jerk, and he deserved it.

The man stared at Emil, bewildered. "What the hell is wrong with you, freak?" His hands looked as if they were made of lava, and burned just as intensely. "Are you that Oxenstierna guy or something?"

"I will pay you for the goddamn mints," Emil spoke behind clenched teeth. "I had no plans to walk out—" All of a sudden, the evil scowl the man wore vanished. Instead, he appeared utterly confused, as if he had no idea what he had been doing. When Emil stared at his hands, he found pale, near-white skin in the place of burning heat.

"I'm sorry, that was a terrible mistake of mine! The alarm must be broken. The receipt is right in my hands, see? I'm not going to bother you anymore, kid. Sorry about that." _What? _Before he could even begin to question what had happened, he felt himself dragged out of the door. Lukas released him once the two were outside, and gestured towards the side of the building. He felt his heart pound; in the midst of his anger, he had completely forgotten about Lukas.

"What the hell was that?" he asked. It was the same question the stern man had asked, but it seemed slightly kinder. Emil frowned.

"I don't know, do you really expect me to know?" Great. On his first day with his unfamiliar relatives, his cousin already thinks that he's inhuman. He sighed as he leaned against the wall, watching his feet. After a short pause, Lukas joined him, faced him, and smirked.

"I don't think there's a pill that can hide that, Emil."


	4. Chapter 4

_Berwald_

His employer knew him as Bernard Ottosson, though the name seemed completely ridiculous. A nagging voice in the back of his head wondered just how long his employer would know him. One of these days, he would see the resemblance he bore to "that convict from TV" and turn him in; to return to the hell he had freed himself of.

_Convict. _Another title that didn't belong to him, yet the world seemed to place it on his head. But Berwald Oxenstierna was a tainted name, and another thing St. John's Centre for Youth Correction stripped him of.

He was eleven when he convinced himself his parents would always love him. They had to; they had given him opportunities, fond memories, and a shoulder to cry on for the days the happiness had left him. Unfortunately, his parents never told him of the qualifications required to be their son. He blamed himself—he was an idiot for never bothering to learn them. He had assumed that living in one of the most gay-friendly countries in the world meant that his parents would accept him when he told them of his attraction towards some of the boys in his class. With Berwald's luck, he was the son of the only Swedish couple who would send their son to the darkest corner of the earth.

A shy, awkward eleven-year-old like him didn't belong in dusty classrooms that taught he was a failure and an abomination, in chambers that sent electric current through his veins as punishment for invisible crimes, in white rooms so silent the sound of tears sounded like thunder, in places where he would rather die than live another day. Who cared if all the happiness in Berwald's life was drained? Who cared if he never smiled again? Who cared if he was stoic? And who cared if his parents allowed this, left him to change into a person he barely recognized, for reasons he couldn't control?

Berwald sure as hell cared.

He could've been released two years earlier, had he not tried to escape the first time—only one guard was frozen—but how was Berwald supposed to know that he possessed such a weird talent? All he did was look at the man, and he stopped moving. But St. Joseph's thought he knew. They thought the devil was inside of him, possessing him . . . no, the devil could not escape into the outside world! Seventeen-year-old Berwald needed to stay, needed to allow himself to be "corrected", for his sins to be erased. He never thought he could detest someone quite as much as he detested the faces that wandered St. Joseph's, prepared to give him a new, inhumane treatment every night. But he had an advantage—if the devil was possessing him, he wasn't going away. If he had to use his new oddity for evil, so be it.

He had been driven out of his home country, forced to assume a new name, forced to lead a new life. But he was free, and he was going to stay free if it killed him.

The day was like any other. He headed to work at seven-thirty in the morning. Despite his troubles, he did have a rather impressive set of carpentry skills, and IKEA had been happy to employ the harmless Bernard Ottosson. So he went about his regular business, standing by the customer service booth, answering questions about faulty assembly and missing pieces of chairs. He hated the social component of the job, but he dealt with it. The morning went by slowly, with few customers to deal with, to Berwald's delight. He didn't trust himself around people, and he didn't want anyone to have a close look at him, now that they've started reporting about him on the news. At one o'clock he picked up the newspaper, where he found a low-quality picture of himself with the headline _Controversial Institution Searches for Mysterious Runaway. _He didn't like how the news made him out to be dangerous, but Berwald couldn't exactly walk up to the press, introduce himself, and correct the mistake. He frowned as he continued to read about how Norwegians should "keep an eye out for mysterious activity". If anything, St. Joseph's deserved to be portrayed as what to watch out for—but the world never worked favorably to Berwald.

"Is this Customer Service? It says so, but this store is just a gigantic maze, and I can't trust any of the signs, because I _always_ end up lost! Well, anyways, I have a question about a chair . . ." Berwald put the paper down to find a pale blonde boy with the sweetest face he had ever seen. The second he looked up, he wished he hadn't—he wouldn't forget that face, and the blush that colored his cheeks wouldn't disappear.

"Mm?" he asked, trying to collect himself. His eyes wandered the customer's face once again; Berwald felt a jolt of discomfort fill his veins. This boy was adorable. Immediately, he averted his eyes away. He couldn't deal with this, not after everything he's been trained to believe . . . and not to mention the danger he could put this customer in, because of his glare . . . "Can I help you?" he could barely form words. He didn't even know if the customer could understand him. Was it rude for him to look at the counter, rather than make eye contact? Berwald didn't want to upset him in any way, but he couldn't hurt _him_ . . . he just wanted this person to leave. He couldn't bear his presence, it was irrational; it was irresistible.

"Um . . ." his voice was accented, but it didn't sound harsh. Berwald's stomach fluttered at the sound of this voice. He watched the customer's fidgeting hands. It was common for strangers to fear him, and with the recent news about him, some people may see him as a threat. _Please, finish your business here. _"I can't assemble this for the life of me, and all the instructions are in Swedish, and—" he broke off, noticing Berwald's face for the first time. His thoughts raced faster. Why couldn't he tear his eyes away from this boy? He wasn't supposed to feel this way! Yet he continued to stare, transfixed at this soft, cute face of his. He was putting this customer in danger, he was supposed to control his feelings . . .

" . . . _Bernard_," he said the name suspiciously, but Berwald's mind couldn't focus on anything. He had never been in a situation like this and he didn't know how to act. Consequently, he simply gawked at his customer, fully aware of how horrible he looked. "I'm so sorry! Do I sound weird? I didn't mean to sound weird; I just thought you resembled that guy they're looking for on TV—not that I think you're a criminal or anything!" he laughed with the obvious desire to be somewhere else. The word "criminal" stirred something in Berwald. He would not allow this cute customer to think of him as someone to be feared.

"Not a criminal," he stammered. "Have a chair, right?"

The blonde nodded a little too quickly. "Um, yeah . . . but do people say you look like him? Because you kind of do, and that can be a problem; imagine if someone called the police on you and you had to go to jail or something but you were innocent!" this boy had no idea what he was talking about. Berwald found it unbearably painful. "What did I come here for again? Oh yeah—the chair."

"'S not too hard. Can assemble it, if you want." At least a job would take his mind off of his thundering heart and the fear that settled uneasily in his chest. He got to work, though his hands moved faster than intended. This was not good. A complete stranger could recognize him as the "convict" from Sweden. It wasn't long before the rest of the world noticed.

"Again, so sorry for the mistake . . . you know, part of me was hoping you would be him. Weird, right? But I wouldn't let him get me. I was just thinking, it's kind of weird, isn't it, how he escaped?"

"Mm," Berwald nodded, continuing to work. He tried unsuccessfully to focus on what the customer said. He spoke incredibly fast, and his voice tied his stomach in knots . . . but it was what he said that caught his attention.

"I mean, the authorities all say the same thing, that he knocked them all unconscious and they never recovered, but they need to be realistic! In all the recordings of the escape, he never touched anyone, and they'd recover if they were knocked unconscious, right?" Berwald's heart hammered. This boy wasn't just suspicious. He was on to something.

"Who are you?" Berwald asked, unsure of the answer he'd get. He continued to work on the chair, to keep his hands busy, to keep himself from shaking with fear.

"Oh? I'm Tino. I'm from Finland, but I'm studying abroad in Norway. The reason I bought the chair is because my new apartment is so empty and it needs one . . . why are you asking?" Well, that explained the accent. It didn't explain much more.

"Wondering," he shrugged. "Chair's fixed." He pushed the chair towards the shorter Finn, who thanked him.

"What a relief! Furniture hates me, you know. If only I could find my way out of the store and fit the chair in the back of my car, that'd be great—"

"I'll help you," Berwald insisted, not realizing he had even spoken until after he did so. Tino's face lit up; Berwald felt energized by his bright eyes, but he had to stop staring . . . who knew what Tino would find out if he kept staring . . .

"Really? That's amazing! I thought the chair would explode or something if I had to carry it. And you know how to leave IKEA! I swear I'm never shopping here again! I haven't made any friends yet, so I can't tell them to shop here for me, and even so, I wouldn't trust their taste in furniture . . ." the two began to walk, with Berwald carrying the wooden chair as well as lead this customer out of the building. His heart hadn't stopped pounding, even though the conversation had shifted from the best and worst night of his life. What the talkative Finn had said earlier suddenly struck him: _Part of me was hoping you would be him. _But why? He had never explained. Who would want to run into somebody perceived as dangerous? Was he one of those trouble-making types? Berwald laughed mentally. The sweet-looking, adorable college student was anything but. He didn't even look like a college student. If anything, he looked like a picture St. Joseph's would show him, to trigger him, to shock him . . .

"Got a question," Berwald insisted.

"What?" Tino's eyes were trained on him; _look away. _Berwald stared at the chair he carried, unsure of how to phrase such an odd question.

"What would you do, if you ran into Oxenstierna?" Tino's eyebrow raised in confusion.

"Who? . . . Oh yeah, the guy on the news! Wow, how could I forget?" The two were now outside the building. Berwald put the chair in front of him. Tino looked thoughtful. "Well, this is going to sound really strange, and you probably already think I'm weird for all the questions I asked earlier, but . . . well . . . I'd ask him if he's super-human." Well, Berwald didn't expect him to answer with "call the police". Tino laughed shyly. "But he'd probably glare at me like I was some kind of weirdo! And then he'd use his advanced sight to freeze me, like the others . . ."

"Wouldn't do that," Berwald insisted. Tino shrugged.

"He could. It's a weird question, but I have to know, you see? Because—well, I'm kind of like him." The student suddenly appeared terrified. "Bernard, I want you to watch this." He watched Tino's expression change completely, from scared to focused. As he concentrated, the smooth skin of his arms molted into hard, gray steel. Berwald gaped at him in disbelief. He didn't know where his stare came from; he had eventually assumed that it was something St. Joseph's engrained in him through his torturous sessions. This contradicted everything. Was this even real? When he touched the Finn's arm, it felt cold and stiff. Tino's awkward laugh broke the silence between them. "Um, yeah, when I say I'm more metal than anyone in the world, I mean it literally." He shook his arm; after a bit of cursing, it returned back to its regular state. "I don't care if I'm seeking the help of someone dangerous. I need to know what's wrong with me, and why this happens, and if I'm not the only person in the world who can do this—do you understand, or am I just kind of weird?" Berwald nodded.

"Not weird," he insisted. "Just abnormal." He yearned to comfort him, but there was only one way to do so. Tino could learn the truth about him. He barely knew him, but he was looking for the mysterious, now heavily misunderstood refugee. Why not end his quest? This boy needed to understand.

Berwald needed to understand.

"Another question," he announced, his voice faltering. "If you found out that Oxenstierna's been standing in front of you this whole time, what would you do?"


	5. Chapter 5

_Emil_

Over the course of just three days with this family, Emil learned three things. The first was that Mrs. Bondevik was an overbearing woman with a need for order. After the second day, her hostess mentality had melted away the minute her husband broke a plate. The incident had scared him a bit, but he couldn't say she wasn't kind. Still, it would be nice if he could leave the house on his own. The second thing was that the family had pictures of him naked in the bathtub at the age of four. Apparently, his mother had given them to the Bondeviks before he moved to Iceland. In one, he saw his father's leg for the first time, but he didn't care—he had died before he was born and the presence of the images combined with Mrs. Bondevik's cooing was horribly embarrassing.

The third was that Lukas Bondevik was not their son.

After a lifetime of foster homes, the Bondeviks had taken him in in eighth grade. He had no last name, so he took up the couple's, as he did with every family he had ever stayed with. Unlike the others, he was proud to wear the Bondevik's name, though they had taken him in out of pity. Unlike the others, he remained in their care for more than a year.

"They all thought I was insane," Lukas insisted one day, sitting in his room. "So they slapped a label on me, refused to listen to what I thought, and left me to suffer." His voice was a constant monotone. It was impossible to tell whether he was angry or simply stating the truth. ""It's not schizophrenia, even if the medication helps. I should know; because of me, they saw things that weren't really there, because I imposed those images on them unknowingly, yet nobody listened. I've lost the energy to care. I've been dealing with this since I was six years old, damn it."

"I burned my mother," Emil shrugged. "At least you know what you can do. If I'd known that I was this way, I would've worn gloves my whole life." His efforts to emphasize with Lukas were met with a glare, yet his voice remained indifferent.

"My brother had been adopted when I was five, and I didn't even know until a year later." His eyes widened when Lukas spoke. Clearly his empathy meant nothing when Lukas has had it so much worse. Emil had no clue what to say to him. He could only watch his fingers, make sure they were harmless and pale. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Lukas examining him. "Your hair is white-blonde, right?"

"What kind of question is that?" he asked, now watching the older boy with curiosity. "Are you envisioning things or something? Does it look purple to you? Honestly, I don't even know what your power is." Nor did he know the extent of it.

"I don't know either, and I've told you before: it has something to do with illusions and alternate reality. As long as I drug myself with four times the advised dosage every day, nobody cares." He continued to look at Emil strangely. He ignored it; figuring out what was on Lukas's mind was beyond him. He stared at his hands again, allowing his concerns to resurface.

"I don't know who I am anymore," Emil admitted. "Should I be concerned? Everyone has their identity, and now, it's like I've been stripped of one, because of all this confusion." Lukas turned his attention to him.

"It's likely you'll never find out. I suggest you try to live your life as a normal person. It will prevent you from going insane." Lukas wasn't one to sugarcoat. It made sense to Emil to speak the truth—he didn't want to hear about how "special" he was or how he needed to "embrace himself for who he was". It was strange. He understood Lukas almost perfectly, but at the same time, the Norwegian was a mystery to him.

There wasn't much more he could say. Nothing would take his mind off of it, but the conversation was dead. Instantaneously, the room began to feel incredibly stuffy. He thought he'd panic if he didn't leave. Staring out the window, he decided he wanted to leave the house. He ached to go off on his own, walk around, pull himself together. He was a solitary person with too much on his mind.

"Do you know of a place I can walk to from here?" he asked. He knew his question sounded strange, but he didn't care, and he knew Lukas wouldn't, either. Lukas had asked his fair share of weird questions.

"There's a park on top of the hill up the street. Nobody uses it, because the children in this neighborhood have grown up." Emil started to walk in the direction of the door, but Lukas stopped him. "My mother will want you home by seven. I'll tell her I'm with you, she won't care."

"But you're obviously not . . . you can do that?"

"Hey, being a delusional, inhuman freak has _some_ benefits." He winked at Emil, and for the first time, he swore he saw some emotion behind those indifferent eyes.

The park at the top of the hill was simple. It consisted of a swing set, a metal slide, a rudimentary wooden play structure, and one bench. An astonishing view of the distant mountains, however, made this small corner of the world breathtaking. The mountains were capped in sparkling snow, broken up by patches of gray rock. The city below was enveloped in fog, softening the outlines of other mountains in the distance. Finally, he could leave the house and explore on his own. With his camera in hand, he captured the scenery, leaving the image engrained in his mind forever.

He couldn't escape from his conversation with Lukas. To most people, identity was everything, but he had to live without knowing who he was. His next shot came out blurry, due to his distraction. He frowned, burning with frustration. Why couldn't he escape the feeling of never knowing anything? He let his camera hang loosely around his neck. Not even the perfect views could distract him. He was forced to accept that there were truths about himself that he would never learn.

So he didn't know who he was. What was the big deal? Society seemed to exaggerate self-identity, as if it were a requirement for existence. He was Emil Steilsson, photographer, loner, realist. Emil Steilsson was all he needed to be.

But he was uncontrollable, unpredictable, all because of this superhuman element that had been imposed on him. He didn't ask for it, but it was part of his name now. It was part of him, as Lukas's supposed insanity was a part of him. _Emil Steilsson—fiery demon of humanity_. Grudgingly, he accepted the title, staring off into the mountains. It wasn't so bad, he supposed . . . at least he had recovered his lost identity . . .

His eyebrows rose as he heard footsteps behind him. A groan escaped from his chest. Who disturbed this tranquil little park? The feet came closer to him; when he turned around, he was faced with a boy taller than him. Emil could only describe him as "wild". His blonde hair was lazily styled into messy spikes and his facial features seemed to suggest madness, somehow. Emil's new goal in life was to avoid talking to this stranger at all costs.

"Pathetic excuse for a playground, isn't it?" His voice was cheery sounding, and it bore an accent. He couldn't tell where this person came from, but it wasn't Norway or Iceland. Emil looked away from him, hoping to hint that he longed for solitude. The foreigner, however, didn't understand. He stood next to Emil and decided to stare at the teenager as if he were at the zoo.

"You look bored. You must be, if you're here, on the world's stupidest hill." He sounded a little cocky. Emil really didn't want to deal with this person.

"It's not stupid, it's gorgeous." Emil didn't know where the urge to defend this little place came from. It sure defeated his silence policy. "Go away."

"I would, but I can't. Well, I don't think I should be here right now . . . it would be best if I stayed with her, she could slip away while I'm gone . . ." In less than five sentences, his voice had changed dramatically. It struck the white-blonde boy that this weird foreigner was here for a reason. "She won't. She hasn't run out of time yet."

"Excuse me, but I really don't know what you're talking about," Emil spoke. "If you came here to be alone, I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"It's fine . . . I did want to be alone, but I don't really like it much. I came here because I didn't know where else to go. I'm on vacation with my dad and my stepmom. She—she doesn't have much longer to live." The depressing stories seemed endless. First Lukas and his past, now this boy and his dying mother. He could do nothing but listen to this stranger. "Four years ago, she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. It just kind of went down from there. I'm a positive person, and I've kept that alive . . . but I feel horrible all the time. I never used to feel like this . . . I used to feel happier." He paused for a moment, as if he couldn't think of what to say. "I feel so guilty. Since her diagnosis, I've started having my own problems, and I don't want to complain about them, because she has it worse . . . so I guess I was going to complain on this mountaintop, to no one, while she uses up more of her time . . . I'm not always this depressing, I swear." His story was captivating. Emil watched him, fascinated, as he told a boy he'd never met in his life about his troubles.

"Your problems always matter," Emil insisted. If this man was really a positive person, he wanted to prove it. "Even if no one else cares, you do, and you are worth a lot more than everyone else." When did he turn into a motivational speaker? Perhaps he was convincing himself more than the stranger, but he never really cared about what everyone else thought. He resigned himself to believe that he actually wanted to give this boy some advice. The stranger smiled a little; it looked as if smiling felt natural to him.

"Nobody's ever said that to me in a while. I've been feeling so negative, which is completely different from my true self."

"It shows," Emil agreed. "Somehow, I can tell."

"Isn't it obvious?" His smile grew a little. "I'm Mathias."

"Emil," he replied, still unsure of what kind of person he was. "You do realize you just told me your life story after two minutes of knowing me?"

Mathias shook his head. "Oh, I haven't told you _everything_. Watch." Pure madness shone in his wicked grin, his bright, intense blue eyes. He held out a very strong-looking hand; his eyebrows knitted together in concentration. Suddenly, a sparks flew from his fingertips, causing Emil's eyes to widen. The blonde shrugged.

"You can say I'm good at hot-wiring things," he insisted. "But I've never actually tried that. But one time, my phone battery died, and I just—" he snapped, releasing more sparks, "—I never have to charge my phone again!"

Emil was far less worried about his oddities. It seemed that everywhere he turned, he found someone just like him. "Is this freaking you out?"

"Not in the sense that you may think."


	6. Chapter 6

"Did you enjoy your walk, Emil?" He had made it back home right on time. The scent of meatloaf filled the kitchen; Mrs. Bondevik smiled as she began to chop vegetables. He kicked off his shoes and began to walk towards the couch.

"Yeah. I took some pictures of the mountains." He hoped he sounded as if nothing exciting happened to him. Thoughts of Mathias burned in his mind; how the hell could he have so much control? Upon realizing what the two had in common, Emil had tried desperately to prove that the person he had met was not alone. Unfortunately, Mathias was forced to take the teenager's word for it. It left him frustrated, but the walk down the hill had drained him of the energy to vent.

The guest room was no longer flooded, meaning Emil would cease to share a room with Lukas. The white-haired teen felt as if he was imposing, so it was much nicer to have his own space. He could retreat in here, and lock himself away from socializing with the family. After five minutes, he had decided to move himself from the couch to the privacy of his room, where his phone rested on his nightstand, charging. He walked over to the device; he had given Mathias his phone number and instructed him to send him a message, to ensure it worked. Sure enough, he found a new message from an unknown number: _hello this is mathias. _Begging that the foreigner wasn't one for texting lingo, Emil replied, confirming that his new friend had the right number. A few minutes later, he received a response.

_u wanted 2 talk more about us?_

Emil rolled his eyes and sent another message: _Your grammar sucks. _

_dont care. we have important things to talk about. _

Already sick of incompetent language, Emil dialed Mathias's number and waited for him to pick up.

"Hey, what's wrong with texting? Our conversation could stay private that way!" He had a point, but the Icelander would not tolerate such awful texting skills.

"When I say your grammar sucks, I mean it's so bad I can't look at it." He shrugged. "Whatever. We're on the phone now, so we may as well talk." He opened his door a crack, checked to make sure the hallway was clear, and closed the door once more.

"You said you knew someone else like us?"

"Yes. There's somebody in the house I'm staying in. He'll probably kill me for telling someone about him, but I'm sure he'll want to meet you. Can you make it to the park tomorrow?" He assumed it would be hard to force Lukas to come with him. Perhaps if he brought the idea up in front of his mother, he would _have_ to follow Emil to the park.

"No, we're actually going to a museum tomorrow. It's far away, so I have to be up by six. We're going to spend three days in the area, so we wouldn't be able to meet until Friday. Maybe, if you really want to, we could do it early?" Mathias clearly agreed that a meeting was important. However, Emil wasn't too keen on waking up—or waking Lukas up—at such early hours. "I really don't want to wait that long. Please can you do this?" Waiting to talk more would be even worse than enduring one early-morning meeting. He would have to rethink his plan to bring Lukas along, but it could work out.

"Fine. How about five in the morning?" He did not know how long this would take. It couldn't possibly last more than an hour.

"Sounds good! I've always been a morning person, so this should be no problem . . ." Emil did not bother to add that he for one, despised mornings. Maybe a couple of shots of the sunrise and more information about Lukas and him would make it worth the trouble.

Steady footsteps made their way down the hallway in which the guest room was situated. Sensing the presence of a third person, he talked a little quieter. Mathias spoke of where he was going, but Emil's mind strayed from the conversation. He dared to open the door a little; he saw the frame of Mrs. Bondevik walk into the laundry room, holding a phone to her ear. She began to talk; he listened eagerly.

"Problems? Oh no, he's been great! He doesn't talk much, and he's hard to connect with, but nothing's happened . . ." Who was she talking to? Who was she talking about? Emil was suddenly determined to find out.

"I'll meet you tomorrow, Mathias. Five in the morning, on the hill," he interrupted.

"Wait—" He hung up, threw his cell phone on his bed, and crept into the hallway. Her voice rang from the room across his own. A door separated her from him, but he could hear well enough from the hall.

"Are you recovering well . . . oh really? Oh . . . are you sure, Elisa? My, I don't know what to say . . ." A painful jolt seared through Emil. His mother was on the phone with his hostess, when she hadn't bothered to contact him once. What gave her the right to talk about him? He inched closer to the door, desperate for more of the conversation. "I see. He's a good boy, Elisa. I can tell . . . are you suggesting that he meant to hurt you?" It pained him to know that he couldn't hear the other end of the call. He considered picking up another house phone and listening, but he was glued to the wall. If he ran in search of an object he could not find, he would miss more of the conversation.

"Elisa . . . I don't know what you're suggesting." His heart pounded in his chest. His breathing felt short; his chest constricted. He had never needed to hear his mother's voice so badly. What did she think of him? He needed her voice in his ear, telling him she would always love him. She needed to know that he would never hurt her again. The desire burned inside of him, so intense that he felt as if he was sick.

"Let me talk to her," Emil muttered, fully aware that the woman on the phone could not hear him.

"Surely this isn't real? . . . Well, nobody could've possibly known this! Don't blame yourself, dear! And don't blame your son, either . . . he was only two years old. The orphanage wouldn't have known, either."

_Orphanage. _He shook his head vigorously, still aching inside. These women were talking about him, but they couldn't be; they must be talking about Lukas. Yes, he decided. Somewhere, between panic and curiosity, the conversation had turned to Lukas.

He was desperate to tune out the pounding in his ears, to hear more, to be reassured . . .

"There had to have been something wrong with the birth parents . . . I don't know why it wouldn't say anything about them . . . the father was long dead before he was born, right? I remember you telling me that, years ago . . . the mother had crashed her car, but there's nothing that could possibly explain it . . ."

It wasn't until a burning sensation brushed his bare skin when Emil noticed that he had burned a hole in the wall he stood against.


	7. Chapter 7

Emil stared at the gaping hole; the white plaster had melted away to reveal pipes and infrastructure. Thankfully he had jerked his hands away in time to avoid damage to the metal. Oh God. What would Mrs. Bondevik say when she saw this, especially after her earth-shattering conversation? Emil ran his now-cooled hand through his hair; he found beads of sweat soaking it. Fortunately, she was busying herself with the phone and the laundry. He could stand in front of it, or walk away and pretend it never happened. _What a stupid idea_, he thought bitterly. As if she wouldn't be suspicious of a giant hole in her wall. Emil shook his head, trying to calm his nerves. What to do . . . Surely Lukas could fix this? Confident the woman was absorbed in the laundry room, he bolted out of the hallway in search of Lukas, in search of a solution.

He found him staring at his ceiling, frowning. He barely turned his head when Emil entered the room.

"What do you want?" He asked, showing no interest. Emil had no time to question Lukas's unfathomable ways. He wasted no time in beginning to speak:

"I have a problem," he confessed. "Come with me."

"Just tell me about it. Do I really need to move?" Emil rolled his eyes.

"Please follow me." He sounded like an annoying little brother, but he didn't know what else to say. "I . . . I burnt a hole in the wall." This caught Lukas's attention. He sprang up from his bed and walked over to Emil.

"You idiot," he scolded. "Let's look at it." It was then that Lukas followed him.

"Why did you even do something like that?" Emil wasn't paying attention to Lukas's scolding. The door to the laundry room was wide open; nobody was inside. Surely if she had seen, Mrs. Bondevik would have screamed? Gasped? Confronted him? He seemed incredibly lucky. He had no idea where the woman stood now, and he had no intention of finding out. "It's about the size of a fist . . . just say you accidentally threw a rock at it."

"Why the hell would I throw a rock at a wall?"

"You damn well didn't burn it, did you?" He raised a blonde eyebrow to Emil, who crossed his arms. _I threw a rock at the wall_. If she actually believed him, even after the conversation she had with his mother, she would think he had anger management issues. "Why did you do it?"

"Do you think I _tried_ to? I was just standing there, listening to her talk on the phone with my mother, who hasn't tried to call _me_ once. Forgive me for being angry about that." He did not add what he had heard on one end of the line. Lukas stared at the wall thoughtfully as the teen's fears began to rise.

"I was told that you are staying with us because she is in the hospital," he admitted. "Do you really have no aunts or uncles?" Emil shook his head. His parents had been only children, with deceased parents. But it wasn't as if that was unusual-no relatives had taken in Lukas after his mother died.

"Isn't it obvious? That's why I'm stuck here." His eyes would not leave the hole in the wall. Any excuse he made would cause suspicion. His mom had placed him on Mrs. Bondevik's watch list. "Well? Do you have a solution?"

"You can't expect me to cover up everything for you. You think it comes naturally to me? Look, I can't do whatever I want with this. It comes irregularly, in varying degrees of severity. I don't have it today. I may have too much of it tomorrow. I had more trouble than expected convincing my mother to let you out of the house alone. So don't expect me to fix your problems!" Lukas's dark eyes watched him closely. Emil looked to the side; he didn't like the severity they bore.

"Forget it," he mumbled. "It's not like it's a big deal, anyways."

Dinner began in uncomfortable silence. Forks hit plates and the news flashed in the corner, but nobody said a word. Emil didn't expect Lukas or himself to be so silent, but Lukas's parents usually talked to each other about matters he wasn't involved in. Today, the aging woman's eyes were fixed entirely on her food. Her husband seemed relatively unconcerned, but he didn't talk unless spoken to. Occasionally, she would watch Emil for a couple of seconds, as if she had only a brief period of time to analyze him. Watchful gray eyes stung him, but she wasn't without suspicion, either. The white-haired boy found that he couldn't take his eyes off of her. Likewise, his thoughts concerned the brunette as well. Did she believe whatever his mother told her? He didn't even know what his mother thought had happen. They barely spoke of it; she only told him about living arrangements. He had managed in their house alone, but she was determined to send him away. Was it for his good and safety? Or was it for the sake of avoiding destruction? A new wave of panic swept through him, along with doubt. His mother was not a materialistic woman. She would have been more concerned with her son . . . _her adopted son_ . . .

He did not notice his fists strike the table. His mind was traveling in all directions at once, trying to understand why . . . she never told him anything about him being adopted. There was no way it was true; she would have said something. She would not have raised him to believe that he had biological bonds to someone he knew, just to find out later that it had all been lies. He stabbed his meatloaf and shoved it in his mouth, trying to use the homely taste of it as a distraction. By now, Lukas watched him with narrowed eyes. Emil really couldn't care less.

It would not have been such a big deal if he had known all along. He wasn't stupid enough to believe that his mother never loved him, just because he had been adopted, if that was even the case. It was the fact that she lied to him that killed him. Her solution to her freak-child was to impose him onto her old friends, and leave him to wonder if she even cared. As he took a long sip of his water, Emil realized that she didn't. Maybe she used to, before everything that had happened. Maybe he had burned more than skin tissue that afternoon.

He finished eating far quicker than the family. Though his thoughts were bursting within his mind, impossible to contain, he knew he could not afford to grow angry. In his mind, he was pissed—his mother had left him out to dry—but he couldn't show it. If he were to show his anger, it would be the end for him, but he longed to release this tension more than anything. Pulsing rage filled every fiber of his being, all with the desire to scream at the woman in front of him and tell her exactly what he had heard. He demanded to know what it meant. Above all, he needed an explanation. But he could not break the silence.

Mr. Bondevik was the one who did.

"Can any of you explain why there's a hole in the wall next to the laundry room?" Only the news anchor responded. He half-expected Lukas to stare at him, but those dark blue eyes watched his father instead. "I guarantee it wasn't there earlier."

Emi wondered if he should speak up. Refusing to admit to it wouldn't help him. _Use the rock excuse. _

"Oh, that? It's nothing, dear. I threw my shoe a little too hard at the wall when trying to catch a fly." Dumbfounded, Emil gawked at Mrs. Bondevik. Why the hell was she covering for him? His eyes sought Lukas—he had to be doing something. His reasoning was quickly dashed when he noticed that the older boy was just as shocked as he was. Emil shook his head. This wasn't right. She needed to be afraid of him, to throw all the blame on him, accuse him of damaging her house. He held his fork tightly in his hand, trying to calm his conflicting emotions.

"She did nothing," Emil spoke, his voice its usual, disinterested tone. On the inside, he wanted to scream at her. It was her fault. If she hadn't been talking to his mother, saying such horrible things . . . he swallowed those words, though it stung his throat. Mrs. Bondevik raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "I um, threw a rock at the wall."

"Why would you do that, dear?" He was hanging by a thread . . .

_Because my _adoptive_ mother wants nothing to do with me. _

"Because I was angry," he replied, still appearing bored, still boiling inside. "You know you didn't do it. I don't understand why you're covering for me."

"Most people don't admit to what they've done, especially at your age. Do you have a reason?" The question seemed innocent; he felt as if it was asking more. _Why were you angry? Why did it happen? Is this why your mother doesn't love you?_

He couldn't take it anymore.

"You were talking about me, to my own mother. From what I could tell, you were saying things about me that I didn't know." His grip on the fork was turning his knuckles white. "Why didn't she tell me I was adopted? Why didn't any of you tell me? I heard everything you said, every word of it! Everything she told you was true, but did that really justify her abandoning me?" Silver liquid oozed through his fingers; the remains of the fork he held burned the table. He was well aware of everyone's eyes on him. Mrs. Bondevik looked white with terror. Her husband's eyes grew ten times wider, and refused to look at anything but the molten object. Lukas looked like he was fighting himself. He was shaking his head, trying to focus on his parents' faces, trying to make them forget . . . the last of the silver fell from his burning hands. His breath came quickly as he realized how fast he had lost control. He used to be so good at controlling anger. Now, he had ruined both the family's wall and fork, all because he couldn't believe that his mother had been so heartless. It was enough to enrage anyone, but he should have been more aware of the results of his feelings.

He lost all the confidence and certainty of anger. Would it be better to apologize or say nothing at all? What they just saw wasn't ordinary . . . they would kick him out for sure, with no place to stay. All he could do was wait. Maybe the family would surprise him.

Mrs. Bondevik walked over to him cautiously. She cleared her throat, as if he could kill her if she said the wrong words. "So you heard your mother talking to me on the phone."

"I heard you. I didn't hear the other end of the line." He didn't need to. He had learned everything already. "In case you were unaware, she hasn't called _me_ once."

He felt her hand rest awkwardly on his shoulder. It didn't comfort him, but at least it showed that she wouldn't abandon him out of fear. "She loves you very much—"

"Was I an infant when she adopted me?"

"You were three," Lukas informed him. All eyes fell on him. Immediately, Emil felt betrayed. How could he have known this whole time? To his relief, Mrs. Bondevik shook her head.

"He was two, Lukas. Please don't mess with him. The last thing he needs is an older brother-type figure playing jokes on him . . ." He didn't know how to react to that. Lukas was distant, but not the type to ridicule him. "Your mother kept this from you?" She should have told him. Mrs. Bondevik thought so. Anyone would think so. It was unbelievable, yet he forced himself to accept the truth. Horrible thoughts ran through his head. If he called the woman who raised him kindly, would she answer? She never told him the truth. He no longer trusted her.

The emptiness he found inside was quickly replaced with rage.


	8. Chapter 8

_Lukas_

"Go away." His eyes closed lazily, though he was far from sleep. He drew his navy covers over his eyes, in attempt to rid himself of his company.

"Play with me." A frowning toddler pulled at his sheets, forceful enough to attract Lukas's attention. "I'm bored."

"You're not real," the adult replied, exasperated. The little boy frowned and tugged harder. This time, he ripped the covers away; Lukas felt his body grow colder.

"Play with me!"

"Get out of my head!" He shielded his eyes with his hands and cursed the medication he took so religiously. He needed more of it. Of all the images he'd seen, this one was the worst. The menacing image of his lost brother crawled onto his bed, white-blonde hair sticking up. His eyes gleamed and watched his elder with intensity. Lukas tried to stand up, but found his legs trapped . . . he fumbled around until he found the comforter resting over his body. Of course it had never been removed. He threw it off his body and stepped out of bed, only to find tiny footsteps following him. God damn it . . . what time was it, anyways? He was too tired for this . . .

"Older brother." He turned towards the little boy, until to find a teenaged version in his place. Lukas raised an eyebrow, wondering when exactly the household guest had wandered into his room. Emil's eyes no longer gleamed, and he frowned deeper than the child had.

"Go away, Emil," he ordered, relieved the younger version of the boy was gone. He must have been so preoccupied with his illusion that he hadn't noticed the real Emil enter. "I should probably get some sleep . . ." the clock read three-thirty. Once he was up, he knew he couldn't slip back into unconsciousness easily. He ignored his last statement and walked slowly out the door of his room, to venture into the kitchen. He needed to grab ahold of himself.

He almost dropped the cup of water he poured for himself when he noticed a figure sleeping on the couch of the living room. He took a sip, unsure whether to investigate. If he was seeing things again, he should probably take medication first. Reaching into the medicine cabinet, he watched the tip of the figure's head; the sight of pale hair caused him to drop the capsule of pills. Emil had been in his bedroom seconds ago, and he didn't follow him out. Grumbling, he picked up the medicine, a new urgency to take them filling him. _Take six; he'll disappear_. Even after consumption, the pale blonde head stayed on the couch, leaving him to question whether the boy had been in his bedroom at all.

With cautious steps, he walked over to Emil, whose arm was dangling off the couch as he slept. His mouth was opened slightly and his chest rose and fell steadily. There was nothing suspicious about the strange Icelander that slept in front of him. His cell phone rested on the coffee table, abandoned. Had he been trying to contract his mother? Lukas knew it would be intrusive to look, but he felt a little concerned for Emil. Since the incident at dinner, he hadn't been able to look at the guest the same way. He looked just like _him_ . . . they shared a name . . . he cast another glance at the boy, his phone in the hands of Lukas. There was no doubt in his mind that the two-year-old that tormented him moments before and the teenager on the couch were not different. He had been adopted at the age of two, in Norway. His parents were family friends with Emil's mother; she must have recommended the orphanage to the Bondeviks, who had taken him in so graciously. He refused to believe it was wishful thinking. It was entirely—and most likely—possible.

The screen of Emil's phone lit up when the blue-eyed man touched it. An alarm clock set for four-thirty. What was he trying to do, run away? That would do nothing. Experiences flooded back to him; he couldn't count the times he had tried to escape the clutches of the orphanage and neglectful families that did not know how to deal with him. The Bondevik's house was the one place he had been accepted, and he was so sure that he had been reunited with the mysterious boy from so many years ago. He wasn't about to loose the only relation he could remember.

"Wake up, Emil," he whispered, shaking his arm. The body stirred; he shook harder, until annoyed violet eyes met his.

"Go away," he mumbled. Lukas found the irony slightly amusing. Just moments ago, he was saying the same thing to nobody.

"Why is your alarm set to four-thirty?" Emil closed his eyes and frowned.

"None of your business; can I go back to sleep? Why are you talking to me?"

"I couldn't sleep," he stated simply. "Don't run away. That's stupid."

Emil sat up immediately, horrified by the accusation. "I'm not running away! Even if your parents don't want me here, I have no choice." He crossed his arms and stared at the ground. "Why do you care, anyways?"

Lukas didn't know if there was an acceptable was to announce that Emil was quite possibly his long-lost brother. He settled for sitting next to him on the couch and staring at the black TV screen. "Running away from your only possible area of knowledge about what you are is quite stupid."

"I'm meeting someone at the park, and the only time available for him is five." Lukas raised an eyebrow, unsure of what to make of this.

"Who are you going to meet so early in the morning?" Emil's eyes bore straight into his, his brows furrowed to show he was serious.

"I met someone today. Someone like us, Lukas. He generates electricity from thin air—and he can explain why we can do what we can." It was the most unbelievable statement he'd ever heard. People with strange abilities weren't lying around on mountaintops, waiting to be found. Could he have heard incorrectly? He had just taken medicine. He would be damned if it wasn't working. "I'm telling the truth—come with me."

"_What_?" Emil leaned back on the couch, sighing.

"I want you to talk to him with me. It'll benefit us, and I know you won't believe anything he tells me, unless he tells it to you, too." The teenager turned his gaze back onto Lukas. "Are you really going to fall back asleep anytime soon?"

The morning air was icy, but Lukas had long since grown used to it. A layer of fog obscured his vision, but he knew his way well enough. After waiting around in silence, with thoughts of telling Emil about his past crowding his head. Surely, he would want to know about his real family. _No_, Lukas ordered himself, remembering the scene at dinner. He seemed to think his mother no longer cared about him; the news of adoption seemed to have reinforced it. Emil walked in silence next to him, taking wide strides, determined to do nothing but reach the top of the hill. A sudden thought struck him like a fierce wind. He could be imagining his brother, yet again, and he could have convinced himself to walk up the hill in the early morning. He stopped immediately, refusing to step up further. He groaned, wondering why these visions never ended.

"What are you doing?" Emil asked, his voice mixed with some anger. "Just keep walking."

Lukas couldn't think of a way to phrase his question. "This is . . . I'm not imagining this?" Emil shook his head.

"This is real." He grabbed Lukas's arm and pulled, encouraging him to continue walking. The touch of his hand felt real . . . it always felt real, even if whatever he was feeling didn't exist. Brief onslaughts of memories struck him as he walked, raising areas of concern. So much of his life had been spent in fantasy and illusion. He needed to ask whether what he was experiencing was actually there—he felt like an old man loosing his memory. How much of his life had actually happened? How many of these memories were real? Wondering wouldn't do him much good. He continued to walk in silence; by the time he reached the little playground, his thoughts had dimmed a little. Like his visions, however, they never stopped.

Through the fog, he saw a man with a wide, carefree smile, blonde hair styled into spikes, and a long black jacket sitting on the bench. Upon seeing the two, he stood up and made his way towards them, giving off the air of a mysterious stranger due to the fog and his style of dress.

"This the guy?" Emil nodded while Lukas tried to figure out what to make of the cheerful-looking man. Is this who he really was? There was no way to know if what he saw was what Emil and the stranger himself saw. With his wide grin, he offered a hand to Lukas. He took it reluctantly and shook it with little force.

"I suppose you want to make it quick, we only have an hour." His voice was accented; if he had to guess, he'd say this man was Danish. "But your friend deserves a proper introduction. I'm the famous Mathias, the one your white-haired friend has been telling you about all evening." Lukas narrowed his eyes and turned to Emil.

"I've never heard of you," Lukas said. "He didn't say anything about you or this meeting until early this morning."

"I was preoccupied," Emil protested, shoving fists into the pocket of a brown leather jacket. "I'd almost forgotten about it."

"Preoccupied with having a series of destructive tantrums, I see—" Emil looked ready to strangle him. He glared at him while Mathias looked on in fascination.

"I didn't mean it! What would you have done, if you were in my place?" What _would_ he have done? He thought of years ago, when one of his foster families was placed in an asylum, insisting that destructive trolls were ransacking the house. He had been ten years old, and was furious with the family, all because they acted ashamed of him. Another incident resurfaced, one Lukas would rather forget. When he was seven, he had nearly killed the child of one family by erasing a speeding car from his view; he still didn't know if the taunts and sneers and punches he gave Lukas were enough to deserve the bloodied, paralyzed state he had left him in. What would he have done, if he lost control? Whatever it would be, the damage would have been far greater than burnt walls and melted forks.

Lukas frowned, his head suddenly aching. "What have you brought me here for, Emil?"

It was Mathias who responded, his intense blue eyes watching the two closely. "By what I've gathered, Emil's told you nothing. Well, I haven't come here to prove myself as a freak of nature. I've already done that today; ask Emil about it. I've come here to offer a possible reason." Mathias's listeners nodded, indicating for him to continue speaking. "Years ago, there was a woman who was very passionate about her work as a chemist. She was determined to create new elements and find uses for them. Using a new, untested model of a new kind of accelerator, she led three other women to run an experiment with her." His voice carried a certain nuance that inspired him to listen. Each word was spoken in a way that intrigued the young man. "The women were securing the devices of the machine when one man helping with the experiment activated it while they were fixing it, which created an unstable configuration of the genetic code . . . well, that's the story my dad told me when I was little, when I asked who my birth mother was. I'd say it explains a bit, doesn't it?"

Emil appeared to be lost in thought as Lukas questioned the meaning of the story. He wasn't sure whether his mother was a scientist or not. He barely remembered her at all. The boy next to him spoke before Lukas could ask anything. "That's ridiculous; my mom works as a—" he cut himself off and furrowed his eyebrows. "Are you suggesting that my power results from a lab accident?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm suggesting. Do you have a better answer?" Mathias smiled smugly at them, knowing he wouldn't have to answer any questions doubting his story. "I don't have a better answer, and I know it's true. After all, my dad's the one who activated the machine too early." The glint that appeared in the stranger's eyes made Lukas feel rather uncomfortable. He watched as Mathias absently snapped his fingers together, producing tiny sparks. He couldn't be imagining it because Emil told him about that. Staring from the stranger's fingers to the misty mountains in the distance, he began to wonder what he was supposed to feel. Usually, to learn the truth after so many years of confusion and darkness was like a weight lifted from one's back. He didn't feel much different than he had earlier. He had long since accepted the fact that he was unusual. A simple story did not change that. It didn't make it any easier, either.

"What should we do?" Emil asked, breaking a silence. "We have this information now. What do we do with it?" Mathias shrugged.

"For a while, I didn't know what to do with it. I've always considered that the other women may have had children. How many siblings do you two have?"

"None," Emil responded immediately. Lukas cast a glance at him.

"One." Lukas didn't think he understood. He had mentioned a lost brother to him. He didn't know if he had expected him to remember, which he didn't. "He was adopted when I was five years old." Mathias pondered this statement briefly before commenting.

"Well, he can be anywhere, can't he?" he asked. _He's right next to me_.

"You were two years old," Lukas stated, his words more direct, hoping to trigger his memory. He watched the teenager for his reaction, only to find Emil turn his face away.

"I don't know what you're talking about."


	9. Chapter 9

_Tino_

Tino had always wanted something exciting to happen. Ever since he was a little boy, he would fight battles with trees or save his mother from "evil dragons" (his couch). His family was well-off and very supportive of him, so they supplied him with books to fuel his imagination and toys he used to plunder villages and slay giants. It was his mother who encouraged him the most, who allowed him to stay up past his bedtime to read one more chapter, who joined him in all of his games, who encouraged him to follow his dreams. Thinking about her made him a little homesick, but he brushed the feeling away easily. He had other things on his mind.

He stared in the mirror of his bathroom, wondering how his childhood dreams had come true. Over the past year, exciting things certainly had happened. He brushed soft blonde bangs away from his eyes as he thought. To anyone, he appeared a normal college student, even with purple eyes. His mother always told him it was a rare genetic mutation, and he should take pride in his eyes. For a while, he thought it was the only thing about him that was remotely special. He was very average—his grades were good, but not excellent, he was mediocre at sports, and his only talent was holding ridiculous conversations with people who couldn't keep up with his energetic mouth. All he ever wanted was to be interesting. After all that had happened to him, he couldn't deny that he had gotten his wish.

Focusing his mind, he watched as his arm molded into metal. He flexed the indestructible limb; he had stopped questioning his abilities. A year ago, he had punched a man in the face, during an unfortunate encounter with thugs. It wasn't until he heard the crack of bone and the sound of shoes hitting pavement that he realized that something was wrong. For months, he had convinced himself that he had imagined the whole thing. He knew better now—he didn't know how it was possible, but he could not deny the truth. He began to accept the power existed, and began to practice with it, but the whole ordeal was a mystery. After meeting Berwald, he still had some unanswered questions. He didn't know what was wrong with him and he didn't know why it happened yet he felt a bit better about the situation, and more comfortable with it. Tino was no longer alone.

Abandoning his bathroom mirror, he walked towards the front door of his house, and proceeded to leave the apartment, find his car, and step inside. His arm was inconspicuous, and he was ready to leave. Blasting the metal station on the radio, he drove into a sunny day and began the thirty-minute long drive to IKEA. He repeated this routine three days every week, thirty minutes before Berwald's lunch break began. They only had an hour to talk, but there wasn't much to talk about. Neither of them had answers to their burning questions, so Tino usually threw around ridiculous theory after ridiculous theory while Berwald listened. The taller of the two rarely talked; sometimes, Tino caught his intense blue eyes staring straight into his. Like Tino's purple, Berwald's eyes deviated from the norms of genetics. His eyes were almost turquoise and reminded Tino of the ocean. They were beautiful, yet at the same time he was terrified to look. When Berwald caught him staring, he usually looked away, presumably concerned about hurting him. Even so, Berwald was terrifying in general. His face looked as if he was always angry, always waiting for an opportunity to hurt someone. It was irrational, and Berwald never did anything that proved him a violent person, but Tino couldn't help but shake in his presence. He wouldn't tell him the story about the night he escaped from that institution, when he froze eleven guards. Tino knew he couldn't make him, but a part of him needed reassurance that the Swedish man would never hurt him.

He groaned as he slammed the gas pedal of his car in frustration. Of all times, his car had to run out of gas _here_, in the middle of a deserted road? Filling with worry, Tino checked the gas gauge. Sure enough, the arrow pointed to the E, confirming his fear. Angry, he tried to start his car again, but it would not move. Metal fists slammed against the car horn, though no other cars were anywhere near his. _No_, he protested in vain. He had forgotten to put gas into his car, and now he was stuck halfway to his destination, which was too far away to walk to. He reached for his cell phone; Berwald didn't have one, but he could use it to call a roadside service . . . Tino cursed as his phone powered down, due to lack of battery. Was there no hope for him? He began to panic. Berwald would be wondering where he was, and he'd be concerned that he wasn't there, or maybe he'd think that Tino lost interest in seeing him, and it wasn't true . . . he slammed his useless phone into his cup holders, trying to push panicked thoughts out of his head. Berwald would understand, he told himself. He would—

Oh, why hadn't he invested in a portable cell phone charger? He wanted to smack himself; panicked thoughts stubbornly stayed in his mind. Was his only hope to stand on his car, holler for help, and hope somebody would appear? Suddenly, an idea sparked in his mind, saving him from despair_. If this car won't move, I'll push it myself! _Eagerly and confidently, he scrambled out of his car, ran behind it, and concentrated his panic on the task ahead. He needed this to work . . . the desperation powered his transformation. Metal legs broke into a sprint as he stretched his stiff arms in front of him, preparing to make contact with the back of the car. _This will work—_

A loud clang of metal sent Tino toppling over the back of his silver convertible, his built-in armor disappearing. To no avail, the car did not budge. He released a groan of defeat, his arms aching. Guilt mingled with the familiar panic, as if Tino could have prevented the situation from happening. Should he have kept gas tanks in his car? His head fell into the back seat; the rest of his body followed. Why did he even have special powers if he had no use for them? Superhumans were supposed to be able to move cars. Even with cool and interesting powers, boring Tino was still boring Tino.

He forced himself to move by his car's side. It was fairly quiet; bird calls seemed to be the only sound in this vacant area. The road was cracked from cold winters. Metal rails separated the black tar from the surrounding, overgrown forest. Perhaps if nobody came for him, he could wander off into those woods and live among the squirrels and whatnot. He could hone the tree-climbing skills he'd had since his childhood. When was the last time he forgot all his worries and just climbed a tree? The idea was tempting, and the thick, brown trunks looked inviting. Another thought stopped him before he could take action. What if help came while he climbed trees, and nobody found him and they left? Tino bit his lip, deciding his body should stay put. He could wait. No matter how long it took, he would meet Berwald, like he promised.

An hour later and Tino was fighting the urge to cry. Berwald had been waiting for him, and he had not been there to meet him. Now he had to go back to work, worrying about him, or maybe even wondering if the deal was done. He screamed, hoping that someone would hear, but the only response was the squaking of terrified birds. It was hopeless. He was hopeless. He was—

The sound of another car alerted Tino, setting his senses on fire. At last, another car! Somewhere in the back of his mind, he _knew_ that he would be saved! Quickly, he hollered and waved his arms, desperate for the driver's attention. As a black minivan came into view, he begged for it to slow down and notice him . . . luck was finally on Tino's side. The car parked behind Tino's own and a young adult stepped out. His huge smile lit up Tino's face as he rushed over to the stranger. He was taller than him, with wild blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. Everything about him screamed "hope", from his red t-shirt to his delirious, contagious happiness. Tino suddenly felt at a loss for what to say, so naturally, he said everything all at once.

"I am so glad you've stopped for me! Thank you so much! My car's out of gas and my phone battery's dead, and I've been stuck here for an hour! I was supposed to meet someone, and I think they could be mad at me, or worried about me, or—" The smiling man laughed loudly.

"No worries! Trust me, you'll be out of this situation in no time! Out of gas . . ." His eyebrows raised teasingly, as if he was planning something. "I was just on my way to buy cough drops, for my dad. He's so picky and didn't like any of the brands in the only drug store in the town we're in, so I offered to drive to the next town to find the kind he likes. But hey, I'm not in a hurry. Don't worry, my stranded friend! You shall be on your way in no time!" Tino silently thanked this man's picky father. Without him, who knew how long he would have been out here? The only concern he had was exactly how this cheerful young man would power his car.

"Do you have gasoline tanks in your car?" The stranger laughed.

"Just trust me, kid." Tino had always had a baby-face and an altogether young-looking complexion. He was used to people assuming he was far younger than he really was, but it still offended him sometimes. Now, however, he wondered if this man was insane. He had no way to power the car, yet he seemed so confident.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Tino asked as the man stepped into the car and stared at the car's mechanisms. "Seriously, what are you doing?"

"I'm going to hotwire your car, duh! Wait, have you tried that? Do you know how?" Tino shook his head.

"Do _you_ know how!?" The stranger winked.

"I should be able to figure this out . . . I'll look it up on my phone." Tino walked into the car, slammed the door behind him, and watched the man attempt to search the Internet for instructions.

"You say you can help me, and you don't even know how to fix the problem? That's dangerous, too—you can be electrocuted!"

"Relax, I'm not going to be electrocuted!" Tino rolled his eyes.

"Sure you're not, because you say you aren't—"

"No, seriously, I don't think I can be electrocuted—" at that moment, the stranger located whatever wiring he needed to start the car. At least, he was pretty sure he found it. Tino had never felt more anxious in his life, even counting his car running out of gas. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the two red wires, about to connect . . . with a spark of electricity, the car started up again, and this strange man hadn't been electrocuted. "Told you. I'm Mathias, by the way, in case you want to report about my life-saving capabilities to the papers. Mathias Kohler, remember that." He grinned wildly, his hand clasping the two wires firmly. Tino stared in confusion; surely, those wires should be frying him?

"I'm Tino, and isn't it impossible for your hands—"

"I like to challenge the impossible. I've made some new friends over the past two days, and we're planning on challenging it together," he offered, though his explanation wasn't helpful. "Okay, you caught me, I'm a freak of nature. From Denmark, in fact! You can find 'em in Norway, too; I've found two." Suddenly, Tino understood. Mathias was like him. He was like Berwald, though neither of the two was as cocky and confident as Mathias. Tino's spirits began to soar. He really couldn't be alone now, not with yet another person who had some strange power.

"I challenge the impossible, too! And my friend Berwa—Bernard, also!" Excitedly, he watched as steel covered his arm at his will, amazed at how fast he had managed the change. Mathias raised his eyebrows and gasped, almost loosing his grip on the wires. "This is crazy. At first I thought I was the only person in the world like this and I was loosing my mind, and then I met Bernard and I felt better, and now I've met you, and . . ." he couldn't think of anything to say. He often rambled when he didn't know what to say, but even his ramblings vanished as the two watched each other in amazement. Eventually, Mathias laughed.

"So two days ago, I meet this guy who claims to burn things with his hands. The next thing I know, he brings this guy he's staying with, who has these schizophrenic visions, but they're not schizophrenic, because other people can see them sometimes, well, that's what Emil told me, the guy who burns stuff. And now, just today, I've met you, and you're _metal_!"

"We go hardcore in Finland," Tino shrugged. "But you're amazing! You're practically a power source . . . can you charge my cell phone?"

"Sure," Mathias offered, removing one hand from the wires. He gave Tino's phone a shock and handed it back. "Shouldn't we move this car sometime soon?"

"What about your car? We can't just leave it here."

"You drive it, then. I'll take this car, because I'm pretty much the battery right now, and I'll take it to the nearest gas station. I think there's a way to keep the car moving without holding the wires together, but I don't know it, so I guess I'll just drive like this." It seemed like a good idea. Tino nodded, thanked him, and traveled to the minivan.

It was nice to have a fully functioning phone, and he used it to talk to Mathias on the way north. On the way, he told Tino a story about four women involved in a lab accident, which could possibly explain the reason why he, Berwald, Mathias, and the others he mentioned had gained inhuman qualities. However, Tino doubted the theory a little. His mother had never talked about being a scientist—well, he had never asked her about her life before him. Still, it was hard to imagine the woman who inspired him to live in his imagination believing that science was the answer to everything. He didn't even want to ask Berwald about his mother, because his family life couldn't have possibly been pleasant. He never talked about it, but Tino clearly knew that he had broken out of a "youth correction center", which seemed synonymous with hell. If he asked, he would probably end up like those guards. Tino shuddered, his hand grasping the wheel a little tighter. Though the curiosity burned him, and he wanted an explanation desperately, he noted to never ask Berwald the questions he longed to know his answers to. It didn't stop his mind from trying to guess the answers.

He pulled in to IKEA's parking lot and hung up on Mathias, telling him to meet him at the store once his car was refueled. With a pounding heart, he ran inside the building and down the nearest isle he could find, determined to find Customer Services easily. Unfortunately, in less than five minutes he declared himself hopelessly lost, so he ended up wandering around the store, trying to catch his breath. Berwald couldn't think he would betray him.

"Don't understand what you're saying. 'M not him, I swear!" Tino's pulse quickened at the sound of a low, familiar voice. He followed it and found the hulking Swede talking to a shorter man, with graying hair and a scraggly beard. A glimpse at a nametag he wore indicated that he was Berwald's boss. He knew that he should probably respect Berwald's privacy, but if he moved, he was sure to loose his way. Out of view, he eavesdropped. He justified this move by claiming that he was simply waiting for the conversation to end, but Tino knew he was only kidding himself.

"The police have come to this store three times this week already, and every time, I've told them that Oxenstierna was out of the area. I know you're struggling to make a living, and I've given you a job and a place to live. I'm asking for you to give me the truth. Are you Berwald Oxenstierna?" A tense, long silence formed. Berwald stared at the man, his expression unwavering. He did not even try to lower his eyes.

Eventually, he spoke. "Yes." He said nothing else. The man's eyes widened; slowly, he pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. Eyes not wavering from Berwald's, he began to dial a number.

"Hello, I've found the murderer Berwald Oxen—" The aqua in Berwald's eyes grew shinier and glossier. His boss stared in terror, his lungs heaving. In an instant his mouth refused to close and his eyes became wide and glazed; his unmoving fingers could not stop the cell phone from falling out of his hand.


	10. Chapter 10

_Berwald_

He had but one feeling—panic. It was physically impossible to tear his eyes away from the man who had employed him without question. He had given him living space and a salary. Amidst his racing thoughts, he felt a pang of anger for his boss. He had called the police. He had labeled him dangerous. And now, his phone rested on the floor, with the very people trying to find him on the other end of the line. He knew they could trace the call to this location. They could find him easily, and they were probably on their way. He had to move, but his legs were stuck. Glazed, unthinking brown eyes burned in his mind, locking his joints. He felt a thousand feelings at once—anger, guilt, anxiety, fear—yet none of them enabled him to leave. The police would have to carry him away if they really wanted him in custody.

He had read the newspapers before: _If found, Oxenstierna shall be returned to St. Joseph's, under even stronger security measures. _His blood ran cold; those words slapped him in the face. He needed to move. Who knew what would become of him if he didn't? Slowly, with a pounding heart, he turned away from the victim, only to find something worse in its place. Soft hair. Wide, traumatized eyes. Pale, shaking arms. There was nowhere he could look. He had to run towards the exit and away from the forces coming to drag him to hell. He'd be damned if his guilt stopped him.

A selfish part of himself seized Tino's arm, without a backwards glance. A yelp of surprise escaped the shorter boy, but he was no longer thinking. Blood pounded in his ears as his legs broke free of their restraints. Eyes locked on the back door, he dragged Tino away from the statue of what was once a kind man. Now wasn't the time to debate whether Mr. Hansen deserved his fate or not. Now was certainly not the time to focus on the way Tino's hand felt in his, how they were warm, with fingers that slipped easily into his. His head ached as the door came closer into view, the sunlight nearly blinding him . . .

"Berwald!" Tino cried, pointing to his distant left. Several tall, uniformed figures spotted the pair; black and white police cars were parked behind them. Whereas earlier, when he found that he could not move, he immediately bolted in the opposite direction, hoping to hide behind parked cars. With small, quick strides, Tino fought to keep up. Out of breath, he mentioned he had a parked car, but could not remember where. Berwald grunted, his legs propelling him forward, into the unknown. Memories flashed through his mind; the feeling of his nerves on fire as they strapped him to a chair, showing him picture after picture of sweet, innocent young boys. Over time, the pictures evolved into Tino, who had always appeared to have walked straight out of one. Another look at his smaller frame would send another bolt of pain. He had always resisted. Resistance was supposed to cure him, to release him. Berwald had never been more horribly wrong.

Closer and closer they came, yelling and cursing. Tino seemed nonexistent to them; it was only the escapee they cared about. He felt his momentum slow, enough to terrify him and motivate him. The gap between him and captivity was growing smaller. Berwald's grip on sanity was growing weaker. Any less distance and his hand would slip.

"Hey, what the hell are you after? Are you after my friend Tino here? He's done nothing wrong, idiots!" Berwald had to keep going, but the sound of a loud, assertive voice made it nearly impossible. A couple of men began to yell profanities at him.

"We've got Oxenstierna, you dimwit! Quit fucking with us and do your shopping, kid!"

"Fucking with you? I haven't done anything to you _yet_." Berwald had to turn around and see. A couple of the police cast him evil looks, but his eyes saw maniacal blue ones on a young face, holding out fairly muscular arms as a barrier. "You're not getting anywhere near my friend. I just met him today. Hotwired his car. We're pretty close, you know."

"_Just move!_" The young man was struck by an elbow, knocking him off balance. "You are preventing a dangerous man from reentering the safe, isolated institution he belongs in!" He clearly didn't care. He looked completely offended. Rage quickly washed over his face as he slammed his palm into the officer's face. Instantly, the officer yelped in pain and fell to the ground, others suddenly rushing to his side. Berwald felt a push in his side. Tino ushered him to the side of the building's wall, a place less likely to catch the police's attention.

"Who's that?" Berwald whispered, the mysterious man sending a couple more people to the ground, using nothing but bare hands.

"Mathias Kohler," Tino offered, stuttering a little. "My car broke down, and he hot-wired it, like he said he did. That's why I'm so late, I'm so sorry—"

"'S alright," Berwald promised, watching the scene play out. Piles of officers lay on the ground; those remaining conscious pulled out their guns, freezing this Mathias in his tracks. Instead of cowering, however, he simply maintained eye contact and tightened his arms. In a fit of agony, the gunners fell to the ground, joining their friends in the pile. Without looking back, he ran towards the pair, suddenly exhausted.

"Tino, oh my God, that was weird! Fuck those police; you need to get out of the area!"

"They aren't looking for me," Tino explained. "We need to get Berwa—Bernard—"

"Think he knows who I am," Berwald muttered grimly. Tino simply nodded.

"We need to get him out of the area, but I forgot where I parked—"

"I parked yours next to mine," Mathias reassured him. "Follow me."

Heart still pounding, Berwald sat in the passenger seat of Tino's car, with Tino gripping the steering wheel with his life. Nothing about him appeared relaxed; the tips of his fingertips shone silver. Nervously, he pulled out of the parking lot, Mathias trailing closely behind them. Once they left, the driver began to floor the car, causing Berwald to lurch forward uncomfortably. Tino drove like a maniac, and while he needed to be as far away as possible in a short amount of time, he wished they could go a little slower. His thoughts wouldn't rest as he stared out the window. Today was supposed to be normal. He wasn't supposed to hurt anyone, or steal an innocent boy away from safety. He was supposed to continue to work, while the fear of recognition tormented him. He wasn't supposed to run out the back door. They weren't supposed to find him.

Electricity wasn't supposed to save him.

Berwald spent the rest of the day in a nightmarish daze. Far away from the unconscious officers, he sat in a diner off the highway, wearing a beige ushanka and red tinted sunglasses. Mathias had met up with his family; though it was difficult to explain the delay and a lack of cough drops, he successfully fabricated a story about a flat tire and a lack of the correct brand of cough drops. With a wide smile and a cheerful tone, he left the two, after Tino thanked him excessively for his help and bravery. Berwald kept his eyes fixed on the menu, which he could barely read due to his farsightedness. Tino played with his silverware absently, as indicated by the sounds of clanking. Berwald sighed, feeling as if a void had taken over his stomach. Tino shouldn't have had to see this side of him. It was easier when he was just aware, but when he dared to risk a glance at the boy, Tino averted his eyes away immediately, shrouding Berwald in guilt. How dare he look at Tino, after what he'd done? After what Tino had seen him do? Though he didn't dare express it, he wanted to lock himself in a room and cry. He needed to bang his head against a wall, or take a beating, or submit himself to those awful electric pulses, but he was trapped in a simple restaurant, with no way to punish himself for his crimes. _Maybe they should've taken me_—

"Would you like something to drink?" a waitress asked sweetly. Berwald shook his head, but Tino ordered a Coke with a smile. He didn't understand how his companion could smile like that. When he did, his insides grew fuzzy, and his head felt lighter. After she left, he took his butter knife and held it into the air. He shook his head as he slammed it down, over his hand—but a sharp pain didn't come. Instead, firm silver fingers held his wrist back. Angrily, he threw the knife down, hyperaware of the hard surface against him.

"Don't," Tino commanded, his voice as strong as his grip. He sighed, in a vain attempt to release tension from his chest. Tino's eyes watched him; they were the color of fresh lavender . . . he shook his head, pulling his hand away from Tino's. What right did he have, to stop him from punishing himself? He deserved it, yet Tino was too good to let him have his way.

"Why d'you care?" he muttered angrily. Tino should hate him. He dragged him into danger. It was his fault they were in this mess, not to mention what he _saw_—

"I'm not letting them catch you. It could easily be me, you know. We're not the only weird people in the world." He spoke with such conviction that Berwald couldn't help but be captivated. He was selfish and kind, and _innocent_. Berwald was unworthy of him, but Tino barely seemed to notice. Tino leaned back in his seat, wrapping his hands behind his head. "Mathias knows others. I want to meet them."

He was unsure of how exactly they would get ahold of his savior; Tino had his phone number but he was staying hours away, where these 'others' resided. It sure would help drive him deeper into the country, though at this point he was unsure if that was a blessing or a curse. He nodded absently, the last thing on his mind meeting more who shared the misfortune of superhuman powers.

Tino's soda arrived, and he began to drink it absently. After taking orders, a thick silence formed. It was almost suffocating, and it rang in his ears. _It could easily be me. _Berwald begged to differ. How could it be Tino, who was the opposite of him? Tino never did anything wrong, while Berwald had been locked away for years, only to come out a dangerous fugitive. Tino couldn't hurt anyone the way he did. He wasn't hardened. He wasn't broken. He wasn't Berwald.

"Ber . . . nard?" Tino asked, shattering the silence. God damn it, why did he have to speak that name so softly? His head felt sickeningly light again. He needed air; he was choking on his guilt. Maybe he should have ordered a drink after all.

"Nn," he grunted, unable to think. His eyes were reluctantly glued to his utensils. They caught the light of the room; he was reminded of the sunlight hitting Tino's arm that fateful day they met, when he realized he wasn't completely alone. He drew in a slow, long breath, and exhaled all at once. If he had learned anything over the years, it had been controlling his emotions. Tino didn't need to know what went through his mind.

"Um . . . I know it was kind of awkward today at IKEA, but you're acting strange, and I don't think you're listening to me. I'm sorry I ran into you at that time, but we got out of that, and you're safe." Tino fidgeted with his hands as he paused. "Well . . . I just thought I'd make that clear, and I really think we owe Mathias one, don't you? I was thinking that we could get together with him and his friends, maybe treat them to lunch or something, everybody likes coffee, right? So we'll take them out to coffee one day, and maybe talk more about what we can do . . ."

"Mm," Berwald offered, less than helpful to the conversation. He was being pursued by cops, and Tino wanted to go out to lunch. "Whatever you want to do."

"You agree?" Tino waited for an answer this time. Slowly, Berwald nodded. He wasn't quite sure what he was agreeing to, but he knew his friend had a point about Mathias. He wasn't much of a people person, and he was anxious enough around Tino alone, but it was what Tino wanted to do. He owed Tino, too.

"'M sorry," he apologized, his voice low and shameful. Tino responded with a look of confusion.

"What for?" he asked, though both of them knew it was obvious. At least, Berwald thought it was.

_For putting you in danger. For taking you with me. For having to see who I really am. _

"You shouldn't have seen that," he finally settled on. "Any 'f it." A hand rested on his shoulder, now soft and comforting. He felt his chin lift, and those lavender eyes stared into red lenses. Berwald's heart skipped a beat, realizing that Tino was looking at him in the eyes, something he barely did, something he should be terrified to do. Instead, his gaze only grew stronger, and the corners of his mouth turned upwards.

"It's not your fault."

Berwald didn't think he had heard those words in years.

* * *

ushanka - those hats with the ear flaps. They tend to be furry.


	11. Chapter 11

_Mathias_

The news was having a field day. According to the reporter, Oxenstierna had been spotted by the manager of an IKEA store up north. The police force that been sent after him were found unconscious in the parking lot, with only the back of a very tall man evidence of the suspect. Police officers now debate whether the culprit behind the mysterious attack on the police was their Swedish target or not. Mathias laughed; it was quite a relief to know that he hadn't turned into one of Norway's most wanted overnight. He still needed to attend college, not to mention that his parents would disapprove of him attacking the police through electrocution.

"This guy can't get a break, can he?" his father asked. The two of them ate their breakfast on the couch together. He smiled, but Mathias knew that the usual spark in his eyes was missing. His father was much like him—always needed to be distracted from life's hardships. They got by through jokes and smiles, even when his mother was dying. It never made it okay, but life seemed a little better.

But Mathias had a new distraction. Visiting Norway had been far more eye opening than he had anticipated. Before this vacation, all he knew was that four women were the victims of a misfired experiment. Now, five children, with enhanced genetics, by the looks of it, were the product. It confused the hell out of him. Emil, Lukas, Tino, Berwald, and he were involved in this, but the theory seemed off. There were too many people, not to mention Lukas's long-lost brother. Six strangers? The story was incomplete, and the answers were out of his reach.

"What are we doing today, Dad?" Mathias asked, knowing that begging for answers would only leave him with a headache. His father took a while to tear his eyes away from the TV screen.

"It's open," he said, his words heavy. "Your mother is exhausted. She's going to stay here for the day, with Grandma. If you want to do anything, I suppose we could drive around; maybe you can go to town or something . . . " he sighed, leaning his back against the couch. Mathias bit his lip. The atmosphere was awkward now. The two didn't like to talk about Mrs. Kohler's situation, but avoiding it was just as bad as speaking. Even if they denied it, it was still there, and it still tormented them. Less than one percent of MS patients died as a direct result of the condition. Most cases were not severe. Only about a third of patients even became paralyzed. Mathias felt that his family had the worst luck in the world. His stepmother was one of the kindest people he knew. When he was young, and she could walk, they climbed trees together and held picnics there. She was energetic, active, and understanding. Now, she lived in a chair, could barely stay awake, and fought just to be there for her stepson and husband. He felt a pang of guilt; he had left her to help a stranger start his car and prevent the police from taking his friend away. She would never approve of what he did—or even understand that he could even do it.

His father told him that story years ago. Now, when there was a hole in the theory, he couldn't even ask for an explanation. _He shouldn't be bothered with my problems, _he thought, though he was itching to talk about it. He had felt the same way when the electricity went out at school because he was upset, or when somebody cried out in pain simply because he knocked into him or her unexpectedly. Incidents had been frequent, but his father never seemed to care about them. Through the course of ten years, his life had closed, and Mathias and his personal problems were shut out.

"You used to talk too much," his father commented, breaking the silence. He said nothing more—he didn't even stare at his son—and turned back to the news. The manager of that IKEA store was being transported to the hospital.

" . . . And that's what happened." Emil and Lukas didn't even look remotely stunned. Somehow, the two were masters at hiding their emotions. Mathias almost envied them; nothing ever seemed wrong with them. They looked like they never found anything fun, either. Emil, especially, had a habit of appearing clinically bored. Lukas's eyes were always wandering or absent. He had to doubt whether he was paying attention. "Crazy, huh?"

"It's a lie," Emil declared. "You didn't meet Berwald Oxenstierna."

"Uh, yeah, I did. I stared at him for about three minutes. It was Tino who I was talking to—"

"There aren't many people like us. You meet a new person every day. I didn't even know this was possible at the start of this month." Lukas made no comment. It was impossible to tell whether he even agreed with Emil's argument.

"If I was lying, why would I have called you to the park?" Mathias stood, pacing occasionally, as Emil and Lukas sat on the bench, listening, doubting, and staring.

"You needed to get out of the house." Lukas's voice was airy and quiet, yet it turned heads. He gave Mathias a look of understanding. "Your parents don't know about what you did to those police officers." When Mathias raised an eyebrow, Lukas shrugged. "You're nervous."

"He doesn't look nervous," Emil commented, though the matter wasn't pressed any further. Mathias wasn't quite sure what was wrong with Lukas, but he seemed to belong to his slowly growing group of misfits. "Do you believe him, Lukas?"

"It's obvious," he insisted, his eyes boring into his guest's. Emil shrugged, not wanting to start an argument. His doubts, however, would get him nowhere if he wanted to unite the two groups of people he had met.

"I have Tino's phone number! He lives about three hours away, but he's willing to find a hotel or somewhere to stay that's closer. I can always ask him to dinner or something! I've told him about you guys; he wants to meet you."

Emil scoffed. "I doubt that anyone wants to meet me," he spat. "I've melted a wall, a fork, a shoe, part of a pillow, oh yeah, and _my mother_."

"Tino broke a guy's nose with a metal fist," Mathias reassured him, "And I've shocked people painfully in the hallways, caused about three power outages, and, _oh yeah_, knocked some cops out."

"Is causing pain and disaster to others really something to brag about?" Lukas asked, though Mathias chose to ignore him.

"All I'm saying is that I can't believe your parents haven't kicked me out yet, Lukas." He was silent again, and his eyes began to wander. "It's a miracle."

Mathias shrugged. "Might I remind you that Tino willingly meets up with Berwald from the news, and is currently hiding him in his apartment? I don't think the two of them will have any problems with you."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

Perhaps he should be spending more time with his parents. His mother was awake when he had returned from the park, and he spent the remainder of the afternoon talking to her with his father. Guiltily, he told his family that he was going out with some people down the street, and he proceeded to drive Lukas and Emil to a casual restaurant about an hour away. When he stepped into the restaurant, he found a familiar, round-faced teen with a hulking man in a duck-yellow raincoat, ski goggles, and a beret. He snorted at the sight of it, to the alarm of most of the restaurant.

"Nice outfit," he smirked, fighting laughter. He assumed Berwald was glaring at him, but the goggles were opaque.

"Thanks! I picked it out myself! I've always loved raincoats, and I thought the French flair was nice." Berwald began to stare at the ground while Tino gushed over his "expert" styling. Meanwhile, Emil was eyeing the pair of them suspiciously and curiously. He whispered something to Lukas, who nodded and observed them as well.

Tino extended his hand to Emil. "Sorry for not introducing myself immediately! I'm Tino. I'm hardcore." His new acquaintance was very reluctant to take his hand. Eventually, Emil cautiously grasped it, shook it, and pulled away almost immediately.

"Forgive him," Lukas muttered. "He's scared."

"Stop spreading lies about me," Emil retorted, annoyed. A waiter took the group to a booth in the corner of the restaurant. The color scheme consisted of red, white, and black and stained glass hanging lamps cast warm, glowing light onto the table. Mathias found himself squished between Berwald and Emil; he promptly slid closer to the latter of the two, fully aware of the convict's abilities. _Better to be burnt than paralyzed. _

Once they were settled with drinks, the conversation began. Emil was watching Berwald shift uncomfortably in his seat. He stared at the table, and gave his fork an intense gaze. The teen then stared at Tino, who looked like he wanted to speak but didn't know what to say. Mathias felt a tap from his left.

"Okay, I believe you," Emil admitted, though it sounded defeated. Mathias smiled and ruffled his hair. "Don't do that."

"See? I knew this meeting would be perfect." He turned to the others. "Well, I think we all know why we're here, and I think we should talk about it. Maybe we can share our experiences and such. Honestly, I don't have much of a plan."

"I thought you did," Lukas spoke. "That's why I came." Mathias glared at him.

"Why don't you talk about yourself, Lukas? That's the plan _now_." He froze, though Mathias didn't understand why. Fortunately, before things became too awkward, Tino spoke up.

"It started last year for me, so I was eighteen—"

"_What_? I swore you were—"

"I was eighteen," Tino confirmed, while Mathias listened in shock. "I live near the city. I had to walk home from the grocery store one day, and I was using the alleyways as shortcuts. I know a lot of shortcuts, you see. Did you know that if you make a left turn past the school in the city, then cut across the public library's lawn—"

"Get on with the story," Emil interrupted. Tino nodded a little sadly.

"So, like I said, I know a lot of shortcuts—and I use all of them, too. So I was cutting through an alleyway to get home, when I feel somebody grab my wrists." The waiter interrupted his story by delivering drinks and taking dinner orders. Once he left, Tino cleared his throat and continued. "So yeah, he's really mean-looking and he had a lot of piercings and tattoos and stuff. Turns out I ran into a street gang. Well, he started demanding money, and he threatened to snap my wrists, which he kept squeezing tighter and tighter until . . . well, before I knew it, my hands were metal and the guy ran away with a broken nose. I heard some others run, too, but I never saw them. I've tried to deny it, but I'm confident it's real now." Tino leaned back when he finished. Mathias applauded him, though everyone else stared at him blankly.

"So you didn't . . . expect it?" Emil asked, turning his fork around over and over. Tino shrugged.

"Who does? It sounds fictional, doesn't it? It's like we're characters from a comic or an action movie or something."

"I give up on questioning it," Lukas added, drawing the group's attention. "I've questioned everyone's existence, including my own, because I _have_ to. I've caused more problems than I can count, because of this. I've driven families to insanity. I've put children in danger. I've betrayed the last member of my biological family, because of this. How can it not exist?"

"Wouldn't be in trouble 'f it didn't." Those were the first words Berwald spoke to the group. He said nothing more and everyone understood.

Mathias scratched his neck and laughed awkwardly. "Well, there you have it! We're weird! There's no denying it now!"

Emil set his fork down. "What do we do now?"

Mathias sighed. "I don't know. I never planned past the initial meeting . . . I thought everything would come into place. I thought we'd share our stories, and then make decisions, but I don't know what kind of decisions we'd make."

"Why don't we just continue with stories?" Tino suggested. "How did you discover this, Mathias?"

"I blew out a street lamp," he replied, the full story emerging in his mind. "It was snowing and I was pissed that the library was closed. I was supposed to pick up a book that was reserved for my stepmother." He didn't like to recall the fear that had been running through his mind. His mother was sick, and he was convinced she would no longer be with him. The library's closing alone was not enough to drive him; powerlessness had caused it. There was nothing he could do for her—he couldn't even give her a book—and it infuriated him. Even worse was the realization that he was the reason why the lamplight had suddenly burst, due to an onslaught of electrical power. "I haven't told anyone, except for you. We're not close yet, and yet you know more than my friends and family do." He didn't want to admit that he was too scared to tell his father, the man who gave him the theory. For such an open person, Mathias kept so much from people; he couldn't recall a single time in his life prior to that street lamp when he kept a secret. Sharing the story took a load off his chest, but he still felt constricted.

"Wow," Tino responded, "That must have been scary! Imagine walking alone at night after a light blows out."

"Oh, it was scary," Mathias agreed. "But now I'm over it." He may have lied.

"So my mom accused me of cheating on a test," Emil began, after plates of food were delivered to their table. "That pissed me off. It was a final exam, and I was forced to take a zero on it, for something I didn't do! My grade went down by a whole letter, and my mom acted like it was my fault!" He took a long sip of Coke before continuing. "I grabbed her arm in frustration, and now I'm here, because she doesn't want me to kill her." He frowned as he stared at his plate. His food sat on the table, untouched, as he avoided the eyes of everyone else. Mathias could tell that there was more he could have said, but Emil clearly wasn't going to talk about it.

"Understandable." Mathias turned to Berwald, again shocked by the ridiculously dressed man's voice. "Not proud 'f what I've done, either." A silent agreement rose. How could he be proud of himself when he put himself above his family? He didn't talk about them; he was too ashamed of his fears. Though the others did not know, his shame went beyond blowing out a streetlight or shocking a couple of students. It was what his power did to him that killed him inside.

"Berwald—Bernard, I mean, we're in public, sorry—we all agree, but most of it is not our fault. We don't have much control, do we? How were we supposed to know?" Tino placed his hand on Berwald's arm, as if to comfort him. After a confused pause, he jerked his arm away, leaving Tino confused.

"Goes beyond broken noses," he muttered. "Practically killed some people. Doesn't matter how cruel they were. You think they deserved't?"

"Come again?" Mathias asked, earning him the stoic man's intense stare. He looked away almost immediately; the terror of what could become of him threatened to give him a panic attack.

"You know the story from the news. Eleven guards . . . frozen, I guess. Don't know what I do to them. Jus' as bad as murder, though." He sighed as he fidgeted with his hands. "My mom sent me away when I was eleven. Thought I could use some correction. Sent me to hell early, I guess. Wanted to prepare me."

"I read about it in a newspaper once," Emil interrupted. "'_ The institution is not government-sponsored and its inhumane treatment of patients has generated much hatred from the general population of Sweden'. _I've heard that people who know about this place are divided between calling you a hero and calling you a murderer."

"Doesn't matter who 't is, killing's killing." Nothing about Berwald changed when he spoke, but he had to be distressed. He had to feel something; his words suggested he did. "They destroyed me. They turned me into somebody dangerous. Can't go back to the way I was, even 'f I want to."

"But you had the chance to be somebody normal." It was Lukas who interrupted this time. Somehow, his eyes appear darker. For the first time that evening, he was looking directly at the group's faces. "You had eleven years to be normal."

"Wasn't sent there for being weird," Berwald clarified. "Sent there for being gay."

Lukas frowned slightly. "How old were you, when you froze those guards?"

"Nineteen."

"How old were all of you?" He raised his voice, to Mathias's surprise. He didn't sound curious, but he didn't sound angry, either. He simply asked a question, and there was a clear reason behind it, but Mathias could not tell what it was.

"Eighteen," Mathias answered, prompting Tino and Emil to share their own answers.

"Eighteen!"

"Sixteen. You know that; it's the reason why I'm fucking here!" Lukas whispered something unintelligible to himself before speaking again.

"I was orphaned when I was four. Within the first two months, I started seeing things the others couldn't. They mocked me, but I thought they were insane. My little brother left my side, and I never even said 'goodbye', because I didn't know about it. I had convinced myself he was there, and that's how I knew I wasn't normal. The poor lady at the orphanage spent the rest of her life putting me in homes; I don't know if it was for my own benefit, or to get rid of some freak child. I've destroyed families. I've almost killed a couple of kids. I have to ask myself if what I'm looking at exists. I'm not telling this to show who has it worse. I'm telling this because I can't control myself, and I don't want to put any of you in danger." Mathias had not noticed how blue Lukas's eyes were before. His eyes weren't wandering; they were staring directly into Mathias's mind instead. He frowned, but he wasn't sad or distressed. Lukas Bondevik simply had no other expression.

"So," Mathias began. "We've all shared our stories, and now . . . we work out what to do." Tino's eyes immediately lit up.

"We should meet more," he suggested. Emil scoffed. "What's wrong with that?"

"I just need to know what we're trying to accomplish. We don't even know what we're doing. It was supposed to 'come into place', wasn't it?" He glared at Mathias, who stared at his empty drink.

"Well, I think it's obvious!" Tino announced. "We need to train together! Lukas said it himself. If we have the potential to put people in danger, shouldn't we counter that?"

Lukas turned to him. "It's not that easy. Do you really think that just because we all have powers, we can magically learn to control them because we know each other?" Berwald nodded slowly.

"Don't have anyone to practice _on_," he added darkly. Tino, however, refused to give up.

"It might not be easy, but it might be the difference between saving somebody's life and ending it," he argued, with passion in his strange purple eyes. "You won't have to live in fear." To Mathias's surprise, he was nodding.

"I'm a guest in somebody else's house. I need to stop melting their things." For the first time, a smirk appeared on a bored face. "I don't need to be special. I'm not going to use this to become some hero. But I like to be in control of myself, and I l like to know what I can do. I'm sick of being surprised."

"Yeah, Emil! That's the idea! Come on, this is great!" Despite Mathias, Tino, and Emil's enthusiasm, the remaining members eyed him skeptically.

"It's not going to work," Lukas insisted. "You think I haven't tried?"

"Too optimistic," Berwald agreed. "Can't be done." Tino eyed him pleadingly.

"You won't even give it a try?" Berwald stared at him, but offered no response. "Please?"

"Not everyone has medication," Emil pointed out, watching Lukas. "You said it yourself. I can't hide this by drugging myself, and who knows how long it will even work on you? Do yourself a favor, Lukas." Mathias smiled, amazed at the effort both Emil and Tino were putting in. But what would this plan mean? He had his family; how much time would he have to spend, trying to control himself? The realization hit him like a boulder. He was choosing one over the other, and it made him selfish. Was he running away from his fears by avoiding his family, or facing them by taking on his powers?

"I'll do 't."

"Whatever; I don't have anything more to lose."

Mathias, unlike Lukas, had much to lose. Somehow, he decided to take the risk.


	12. Chapter 12

_Emil_

In front of him, a dark road lit only by street lights curved. No moon hung in the sky. Emil shivered as brisk winter air brushed his exposed arms. A thin sheet of ice left his bare feet numb and red. Metal rails separated country road from dense forest, and road from cliff.

He wandered around aimlessly, shivering as he stepped. It was not safe to walk in the middle of a road, but his feet were unbearably cold. A dimly lit glance at the forest floor revealed a blanket of leaf-littered snow. Why had he wandered here, in only his pajamas? Too cold to question this, he sat on the frozen metal rail between the forest and the road, his feet no longer touching the ice.

A loud skid caught Emil's attention. In the distance, long, agonizingly bright headlights shook. Ear-shattering, blood-curdling screams sounded from inside as the driver fought for control. His stomach lurched as he realized that a baby was in that car. His cry struck the observer in the chest; _holy shit_, that baby was going to die! While his feet froze, an infant was about to face his death. Though he remained outside the car, the voices of two other passengers were clear to him. Emil wasted no time thinking; with every piece of his strength, he threw himself onto the ice and placed his hand to it. He had two seconds to melt it, but his body gave off no heat. His heart raced as he panicked; he would die along with these passengers, and none of it would be worth the sacrifice. If he couldn't save these innocent people, he was damned. Why was he powerless when it mattered, and dangerous when it didn't? All he could do was hope: _If my efforts fail, all I hope is that my death comes quickly and painlessly. _

A crash resounded throughout the frigid air, but Emil felt nothing. There was no pain, no impact—just a bawling infant and a little boy. Somehow, he knew immediately that their mother was dead, and Emil had failed to save her.

He bolted upwards, his face, chest, and back soaked in sweat. An old blanket was wrapped tightly around his body, yet the numbness in his toes failed to leave him. Walls surrounded him, and the darkness was gray rather than black. Emil rubbed his pounding head, thoughts racing.

"A dream . . ." he muttered, slightly pissed. It felt too real, and it meant too much. A moment before, he was desperately attempting to lay down his life to save that family. A baby's cries resounded, strident and cold. Try as he might, he would not forget this dream.

An older scream brought him a fresh wave of panic. Emil shivered; it was eerily similar to that of the boy in his dream. Horrified, he threw off his covers and sprinted to Lukas's room. The Bondeviks joined him almost immediately. Upon the sight of his older companion, Emil felt sick. His pupils took over his dark blue eyes as he sat up. He did not appear terrified, yet he could tell that the scream belonged to him. His foster parents rushed over to his bedside. Lukas did not acknowledge their presence.

"_LUKAS! What's wrong; tell me what's wrong! What happened? What do you need?" _Mrs. Bondevik threw her arms around him, though he remained unresponsive. His eyes darkened but he stared at nothing. Judging by his lack of reaction, Lukas had no idea what was happening.

The temperature of the room dropped to that of Emil's dream. The voices reappeared in his head, reminded by the cold. The floor grew caked in ice as they stepped, and their breath appeared in front of them, in shallow wisps. Lukas's chest rose and fell slowly, though his own breathing ceased to deepen. Thin, pale fingers shook; eventually, he balled his hands into fists and released another terrifying scream. Mr. and Mrs. Bondevik came closer, though both were evidently afraid.

"Lukas, it's okay, it's okay . . . I'll get your medicine." Mr. Bondevik wasted no time in scurrying out of the room, leaving his hysterical wife to try to deal with her son.

"_Freedom,_" Lukas whispered, his voice scratchy. Tears fell down Mrs. Bondevik's face as the young adult's eyes rolled to the back of his head. Part of Emil wanted to turn away; the other looked on in morbid fascination. This was what Lukas did. This was why he was initially opposed to Mathias's suggestion.

There was no possible way to control this.

Suddenly, he gasped; thousands of tiny winged creatures escaped from his throat and flew straight towards the room's other occupants. They glared at them with beady black eyes and snapped with pointed teeth. Emil flung them away clumsily as Mrs. Bondevik screamed. Lukas focused on his breathing, still oblivious to the chaos around him. The pixies bit at Emil's arms, throat, and face; his hands became liquid fire, but the creatures did not melt. They simply attacked harder. He was beginning to suffocate himself. Each breath was short, pain-filled, and unwelcome. He fell to the frozen floor, choking and sputtering as the swarm of the filthy creatures bit into his flesh. All he could hear were the fluttering of wings and Mrs. Bondevik's high-pitched, terrified scream.

It stopped as quickly as it came on. Seconds later, the room felt warmer and he heard no flapping wings, no curdling screams, just heavy breathing and Mr. Bondevik's footsteps. Emil had burnt a tiny hole in the floor, but it didn't bother him in the slightest. He had seen why Lukas hadn't lasted long in his other foster homes. He had badly underestimated the magnitude of it.

"Medicine, my boy?" Lukas was shaking. His pupils had returned to their normal state and he was breathing normally, but his skin seemed paler and he looked as if he was entering shock. With quavering fingers, he took eight pills out of the bottle and swallowed them hastily. Mrs. Bondevik put a hand on her chest.

"That's too many!" she cried, witnessing, for the first time, Lukas's excessive dosages. He raised a pale eyebrow to her.

"It's not enough," he claimed. "I can't do this anymore. It's not working. I need something stronger." His mother didn't dare debate it. Nobody in that room was keen on having another disaster. Mrs. Bondevik seemed unable to move from Lukas's bedside. Her eyebrows were raised and her eyes were red from crying. Mr. Bondevik, on the other hand, was very fidgety. He took several small steps forward and back; his eyes stared at the floor the whole time. Emil barely had the courage to look him in the eyes, but he knew Lukas needed _some_ reassurance that he wasn't dangerous. If he couldn't bear to look at him after an incident beyond his control, nobody could.

"They have yet to throw _me_ out." Emil knew that his words would offer no comfort, but he spoke them anyways. He had to say _something_—but both of them were fully aware of the situation's extent. It was now the afternoon, and neither of Lukas's parents had spoken to him. Nobody talked about it, and nobody wanted to. Still, the topic emerged in the stuffy guest room. It was dreadfully hot, but Emil infinitely preferred this discomfort to that of the morning. He sat against the wall, legs sprawled out on the floor. Next to him, Lukas sat with crossed legs and watched the door intensely.

"Nothing like that has happened here," Lukas admitted, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "I started taking medication in seventh grade, a year before I came here, and for the most part, it's helped to prevent it . . . there's been a couple of minor, fixable incidents, and there's been you, but I've never . . . what have I done?" It struck Emil how devastated he was about this. His words were drenched in guilt; his eyes were red and teary. He did not cry. Had he not been hardened against emotion, he may have burst into tears. "They love me, right? They wouldn't abandon me . . ." Emil had nothing to say. He bit his tongue before he could point out that he had thought the same about his mother, yet here he was, without a single word from her. His old anger returned briefly. He had tried to send her so any messages, especially after the phone conversation between her and Mrs. Bondevik. It wasn't his fault he burned her . . . and it wasn't Lukas's fault that he lost control.

"I was stupid to think that I could last my whole life here," Lukas sighed. "Where the hell am I supposed to go?" Terror flooded his pale face. "What if they send me to an asylum?"

"They won't," Emil announced, though he could hardly be confident. "If they try, we find Mathias, or Tino, or Berwald. You aren't going anywhere." A period of silence fell on the small room. Emil was unsure how he would keep a promise like that, but he wasn't used to seeing Lukas so broken. It was almost as unbearable as the morning's events. The silence allowed a string of images to replay in his mind. Black-eyed pixies gnawing on his flesh as Mrs. Bondevik screamed. A pair of bottomless human eyes. A baby crying as a car crashed into a rail. The sound of a little boy's scream, which grew deeper and lower until it became familiar . . .

Emil shook his head. His eyes grew wider as he connected the images. He knew the identity of the boy in the car. He knew who the woman was, as well. And the baby.

"I had a dream last night." His chest tingled uncomfortably as he broke the careful silence. Lukas turned to him, beckoning for Emil to continue. "I was standing barefoot on a freezing country road. A rail separated the road from the cliff and a forest . . ."

"A cliff and a forest . . ." Lukas repeated, and he was sitting on the freezing metal again, begging for warmth. This time, however, the car came faster. He had no time to melt the ice. The screaming and the crash bled together; a silver car lay smashed on the side of the road. Without a second thought, he opened the car door to examine the passengers. The woman's features were vague; she lay slouched against the steering wheel, a mass of white-blonde hair shrouding her face. Disturbed, Emil turned towards the two young boys. The older boy did not cry. He merely stared at the lifeless woman in front of him. His eyes were dark, mesmerizing, and intense. In his arms, a little boy with thin tufts of white-blonde hair slowly ceased to cry. Emil stared at him wordlessly, no longer feeling the bitter cold that surrounded him. He could stare at nothing but the infant and his brother. Five-year-old Lukas was holding him. The woman in the car was his birth mother.

Instantly, the road and the car disappeared, though the unbearable winter stayed. Scornful laughter filled his ears as the scene rearranged around him. The ground he stood on became decaying wood; walls with peeling paint surrounded him. This time, the child had a broom, and was on the verge of tears.

"You're stupid, Lukas," a taller, older boy sneered. "You go around yelling about creatures that aren't real, and you expect people to believe you. You just make us all look dumb. Nobody's going to want you if you keep it up." Emil wanted to punch this kid in the face, more than anything. He had a crooked nose and a wicked smile that could do with some rearranging. It wasn't real, and he couldn't make it real. Instead, he focused on Lukas, who was watching one of the vile pixies that had attacked him earlier.

"Are you going to let these mean kids push you around?" the creature asked. Her teeth were the same blades as this morning, and her eyes were just as black and shiny. She spoke with a careful, malevolent voice. "They don't know anything. They are crazy, not you. Only you see the truth, Lukas." The boy shook his head violently as his breathing grew louder. His tormentors smiled wickedly, blissfully unaware of anything that was going on.

"Shake your head. Deny it all you want. But in the end, you're just some homeless retard." The vicious voice grew clearer. "My friends and I can take care of them for you. Let us drive their mean words away." Lukas released a soft, short whine.

"Don't do it," he whispered, none of the older boys listening. "You can't—you'll hurt them!"

"Isn't that what you want?" One by one, more of the winged creatures appeared out of thin air. They circled Lukas and flew straight towards his throat and his mouth. Miserably, he screamed, not unlike the one that drove Emil out of bed. Tears came as she spoke again, this time her voice strident. "We don't want to hurt you, Lukas! It just turned out this way! Why do you accept the fact that people should push you around? Is this what you want? Do you want to listen to them, and not us? We're only teaching you a lesson, my boy! Forgive us for trying to change the way things are!" Another scream filled the air. The tormentors watched in horror as he balled his fists, prepared to fall over in a fit of suffocation . . .

"Give—me—my—_freedom!_" Lukas forced out, landing on the ground. The pixies swarmed towards the bullies, who promptly screamed and ran away in horror. Some of them suffocated as Lukas did . . . as Emil had done . . .

He blinked and found himself back in the guest room, shivering with heavy breaths. The Lukas next to him was grown and he did not look terrified. He stared at the door, leaving Emil in silence as he recovered from the onslaught of images.

"What the hell was that?" he asked, once he was able to speak. He had a feeling he already knew.

"Last night's dreams," Lukas clarified, to Emil's horror. "Fictional retellings of actual events. Like memories, but distorted." He shifted his gaze towards the window. "The second one almost happened. The first is—"

"I was in the first one. It was similar to the dream I had last night, which you interrupted with your freaky, hyper-realistic images."

"You started telling it, and they came back to me! I've told you it's worse some days than others, and today is a bad day. Just a bad day . . ." He trailed off and shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he did so. Emil's mind was stuck on everything he'd seen. Everything was cold, and nothing was entirely true. It was a dream, but at the same time, it was more.

Emil was tentative when he spoke. Perhaps he did not really want to know the answer. "Did the first really happen?"

"I was four years old. I don't remember anything. I'm certain about two things: our mother died in a car crash and I had a younger brother named Emil. I don't remember our last name, our mother's face, or if we even had a father—"

"You're talking as if I really am related to you," he interrupted, suddenly disturbed. Everything he had seen seemed to suggest it but there was no way any of it could be true. "It's too unlikely. Do you think I would just so happen to meet some brother I never knew I had?"

"I don't know. Nothing shocks me anymore. You _just so happened_ to meet three other people like us, one with a theory. Have you noticed that in the story, only four women were caught in the accident?" He had nothing more to say. The face of an infant lookalike burned in his mind. The nameless woman was slumped over the steering wheel. Though he tried to push them away, they seemed to return immediately, like a boomerang. It became hard to think this through, and even harder to deny it. Even though he needed to talk, words failed him. Lukas could very well be his brother. In fact, he probably was.

"We need to have a talk." Eventually, Emil and Lukas were situated in the family room with Lukas's parents. Though his posture was lazy and relaxed, he felt anything but. The Bondeviks now knew how dangerous Lukas could be. They could kick him out, just like the other families that Lukas had ever stayed with. And Emil wasn't exactly spared from their fear, either. Though ruined household objects were less concerning than terrifying, hyper-realistic illusions, he was still at risk for eviction. He trained his eyes on the ceiling, the prolonged silence poisoning his nerves. He did not want to see whatever expression anyone wore, or hear whatever diction they would use. He wanted to disappear into the mountains, unharmed, away from anyone who could evict him or hurt him.

But he could not escape the scene before him. "When we first looked into housing you, Lukas, we've heard things. Families looking after you had disappeared. Children had been paralyzed and nearly killed. Couples had been driven to insanity, yet we took the risk. The owner of the orphanage warned us, but she begged us as well. Since you were five, her goal was to get you out of there." Emil frowned as he listened. So these people had doubts about Lukas initially. He was unsure whether this family was truly nice at heart. "I don't mean we thought you were bad! We're not superstitious, and I, for one, do not believe a _person_ could be bad luck." Mr. Bondevik nodded in agreement as his wife spoke. She sounded firm but showed no signs of anger or distrust. Still, Emil could never be too sure. He no longer knew what to believe about people. "She told us you had severe schizophrenia. You've agreed with her, and we've been buying medication, and things have been all right! But today . . . this morning . . . how do I say this?" Mr. Bondevik placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Your condition is far greater than we had anticipated," he spoke, strangely calm. "It's not schizophrenia; we saw those illusions as well—"

"I know it's not," Lukas interrupted, speaking slowly. He stared at his legs rather than his parents' faces. "I'm a freak," he whispered, more to himself. His eyes were empty. It was clear this devastated him, though he tended not show emotions like this. He was expressionless, but not emotionless. Emil almost pitied him.

"It's nothing you can help," his father reassured him. "We just want to know why it happens." Lukas continued to look away. His eyebrows scrunched together.

"I don't know," he sighed, frustrated. It occurred to Emil that he had lived for fifteen years without any reasonable explanation. He had been living with it for about a month. It also occurred to him that Lukas had never been in this situation. Most people screamed and returned him, as if he was a product that broke unexpectedly only a few months after purchase. Emil figured that he should stop expecting the outcome of this—he didn't know what to expect anymore, so he decided to expect nothing. "Genetic disorder or something."

"You're not going to throw him out of the house, are you?" Emil preferred to think before he spoke. Recently, he found it difficult. His emotions seemed to fog up his logic and spit out whatever was on his mind. Lukas's parents looked horrified, which was much of a relief.

"No, _no_! Who do you think we are? We're just shocked, that's all. I think if we try hard enough, we can find answers—"

"You can't. We can imagine all the theories we want, but in the end, we have no proof," Lukas argued, voice firm. "I decided not to spend my lifetime guessing. I've accepted that I am this way. Do I want to be? No, I don't. I have woken up from terrifying dreams and wished for nothing more than to be normal. I have hurt myself trying to change myself, and I've hurt others, too." The room fell silent. Emil stared at him in shock. He only had a slim idea of how it felt to be out of control. Compared to Lukas, his own lack of control was nothing. Melted forks were hardly traumatizing. Of course someone like him would want to be normal. Unlike Lukas, Emil had the chance. He tended to stay away from others and people at school marked him an outcast and a loner because of it, his mind didn't wander out of reality. His thoughts never landed in the head of anyone else. Even in a group of outcasts, people like Emil, Mathias, Tino, and Berwald, nobody could really understand Lukas. Only his inner demons could. "Please, Mom. I would like some time alone." Lukas stood up, eyes distant and distracted, and walked out the front door. It took his parents a few moments to register his absence.

"Aleksander, please bring me my address book. I think I need to make a couple of phone calls."


	13. Chapter 13

Three hours later, a plump, frazzled-looking woman stood in the doorway, carrying an old, floral-print bag. She had bags underneath her dull blue eyes and she wheezed when she breathed. Emil couldn't take his eyes away from her. He was pretty sure he knew who she was, but he did not know how she could help them. Mrs. Bondevik gave her an awkward hug as she invited her into her home.

"How are you, dear?" the woman asked, shaking hands with Mr. Bondevik. "Both of you, and Lukas?"

"We're just fine," Mr. Bondevik said, tone unconvincing. "Dandy."

"And who is this?" she asked, gesturing towards Emil. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the door. Lukas still hadn't returned.

"This is Emil Steilsson. He's staying with us for a while." He still did not know how long 'a while' was. He tried to push it out of his mind; it was surprisingly easy. Bigger questions filled his thoughts as the woman walked over to him and offered a weathered hand.

"Why hello! You can call me Ms. Britta, dear. Caretaker of Ms. Britta's Home for Children." The name was familiar and gave him a feeling of dread. This was the lady who shoved Lukas into a series of foster homes, who was desperate to give the lost, broken boy a good life. Additionally, she would have met him before, at the age of two. Awkwardly, Emil shook her hand and continued to watch the door. "Where is dear Lukas?"

"He's wandered off," Mrs. Bondevik replied, faking a smile. It slightly annoyed Emil. Ms. Britta seemed too cheery for the job she had, and Mrs. Bondevik wasn't helping, either. She had just realized exactly how bad Lukas's problem was, but the two chatted politely. It was as if neither of them could face the truth, and it bothered him.

"Oh? That's too bad. Well, perhaps it's better this way. I'm not sure if he wants to listen to yet another conversation concerning him." Emil hoped that he wouldn't get shooed from the room. Here was a woman who could possibly explain where he came from. She had known about Emil before he knew about himself. "Your phone call concerned me quite a bit. Hearing about what happened . . ." the cheery smile faded from her round face. Mrs. Bondevik gestured towards the kitchen and led her guest to the table. Desperate to listen, Emil flattened himself against the wall, trying to appear invisible. He was listening to this conversation if it killed him.

Their voices grew a little softer. Glancing to the side, Emil saw Ms. Britta remove papers from her old bag. The sound of flipping paper reached his ears, as well as indistinguishable murmuring. "Lukas has been living with you for seven years, correct?"

"Yes, and nothing like this has really happened," Mrs. Bondevik confirmed. "He's had a little trouble sleeping sometimes, and occasionally his teachers would call him, claiming that he had some kind of panic attack during school hours, but normally his medication—"

"When we first welcomed him into our home, you told us he had some . . . mental problems. Other families didn't have much luck with him, but he's a very nice boy. He was polite, and respectable and well, reserved, and we can't imagine our lives without him," Mr. Bondevik interrupted. A period of silence followed. Emil took very slow breaths, careful not to give away his position. He couldn't be the one to break it.

"Where do these problems stem from?" At last, the question he had been waiting for. His heart beat a little faster in anticipation. He was going to hang on to every word. The desire for information continued to consume him. There was no way none of this concerned him.

"Lukas came to my home with a brother, you know. The two of them were brought to me by a police officer. He found them on a winding mountain road, huddled together. Their mother was in the front seat of the car, dead." Ms. Britta paused shortly before continuing. "He was a five-year-old boy, holding an infant in his arms. They said the look in his eyes was absent, almost dead . . ." she sounded as if she was about to cry. Secretly, Emil begged for her to continue. Each sentence opened his eyes a little, but the story so far was not enough. "They asked him for his mother's name. He couldn't remember. He only knew his first name because it was written on a backpack he had. A couple months later, he suffered massive headaches, and that's when he began to see things . . . things that weren't really there . . ." The glow of the headlights and the sound of screaming returned to him. _Last night's dreams,_ _fictional retellings of actual events. Like memories, but distorted._ The image of the nameless woman's body haunted him; her body was bent at unnatural angles, unresponsive to her children. That memory, the memory that had returned to Lukas fourteen years later, couldn't be real. Like him, Lukas remembered nothing about his life before his mother's death. "He woke up screaming in the middle of the night at times. He talked about fairies and trolls and dragons; I had to move him because he scared the younger children. His brother was adopted and he didn't notice. I'm afraid Lukas has been delusional ever since the accident." But why? If Emil was in that accident, too, why didn't he grow up spewing lava from his hands? The doubts he held about being Lukas's brother were slowly diminishing, though this question kept it alive. Wordlessly, he remained pressed to the wall. Where was Lukas? He needed to hear this story as well. Emil doubted he could repeat it perfectly.

"When we first took in Lukas, you mentioned you did not have his birth certificate," Mrs. Bondevik commented, her voice thoughtful. "Why is that?"

"Its owner never gave it to us." Emil tried to suppress a gasp. What the hell did that mean? If the orphanage didn't have Lukas's birth certificate, who did?

"Come again?"

"Years ago, after his brother was adopted, a man came to the orphanage, claiming to be Lukas's father. He had the certificate and the identification and all—a DNA test confirmed his relation to him." Emil's eyes widened as he processed this information. Lukas's father tried to retrieve him? He shook his head in disbelief, but he knew Ms. Britta wasn't lying. She couldn't be; the Bondeviks asked for the truth, and she was too polite to refuse. "Lukas acted really strange around him. He screamed when his father tried to pick him up. He distrusted him, though I never saw anything wrong with him. I figured he would adjust to him eventually, but on the day his father was supposed to take him home, he suddenly changed his mind. The man seemed to have no idea what he was doing at the orphanage, with no clue as to who Lukas was. He left almost immediately, and we never heard from him again." He had never heard of this. Lukas hadn't told him anything about this. Who knew if he even remembered this? Emil fought to steady his breaths. With each new story, his head swam with a thousand more questions. Fresh air and time to think would help him, but he couldn't tear himself away from the conversation. "Lukas had this glazed look over his eyes—I will never forget it—he didn't say a word. All he did was stare at this man with those glassy eyes, and he just left, all his plans forgotten. I will never understand it for the life of me."

"What was his name?" Mr. Bondevik asked, his own curiosity matching Emil's. "Lukas's father?"

"Josef Karl, I believe," she replied. Suddenly, the front door swung open. Lukas stepped into the room, dazed. His face was pink and his hair was ruffled. Immediately, all conversation ceased as Mrs. Bondevik walked over to her son, noticing Emil pinned against the wall.

"Are you okay?" Lukas nodded, looking past her. His eyes widened as he caught sight of Ms. Britta, who waved very awkwardly.

"Lukas, dear, hello! It's been a while, hasn't it?" Lukas stared at her, indifferent.

"Why is she here?" he muttered, though he knew the answer. Emil noticed that despite his usual expression, he was very tense. "Tell me what she's doing here."

"She's giving us answers," Emil whispered, his tongue burning with stories to tell him. "Come to my room; I'll tell you."

Ms. Britta did not stay for dinner. She left sometime while Emil relayed the story to Lukas, who listened aptly. When he reached the part about his father, Lukas sat up a little straighter and stiffened.

"That's all I heard," Emil finished, trying to see into Lukas's mind. It was impossible—he was either lost in thought, lost in illusion, or aware of his surroundings and completely indifferent. He always knew the benefits of being an indifferent person, but it pissed him off a little when he couldn't read Lukas's expression. He was hard to understand, and Emil was confused enough already. "What do you think of it?" Lukas thought for a minute.

"I don't remember anything about a man with that name." It made sense that he didn't. He was only five. Emil didn't remember everything that happened—yet he had figured that Lukas had to have remembered something, maybe a mental image of what he looked like, or possibly the sound of his voice. But Lukas had nothing, and all the two of them had was a name.

Another question came to Emil. "Where were you, anyways? Why did I have to tell you all of this, when you could've listened?"

"I had to get away. Something came over me. It's hard to talk to them about my problems." Emil knew that 'them' meant the Bondeviks. "I went into town and bought medication, then I called Mathias. I wasn't sure how he would help me, but I didn't know what else to do."

"And what did he do?"

"We met at the park. I told him about what happened and he listened. I was a little surprised he _could_ listen, but he was nice about it. He offered some advice, too. 'You may feel out of control, but it's a part of you. Try to think strong thoughts. You own what you create, and you have the right to take charge. You'll find it eventually'. That's what he told me." Emil took a moment to think that over. How the hell did someone like Mathias know that? He wasn't any more experienced than him, and he especially wasn't more experienced than Lukas.

"He's weird," Emil shrugged, not knowing what to make of his speech. He really was. The first time he met him, he had confessed things his own family didn't know to a stranger, and he had been cheery and overly optimistic every time since then. Suddenly, he comes out with inspiration, seemingly out of nowhere. If that wasn't confusing, nothing was.

"You'd think he was a complete idiot, and then he comes out with stuff like that." Without explicitly stating anything, Lukas understood. Another thing that baffled him, how easily Lukas understood. He could probably talk to him about anything, if he really wanted to. Emil was such a private individual, and he never considered sharing any of his secrets before he met him. The thought of confiding in someone comforted him a little. His spinning thoughts could take a rest.

"When's our next meeting?" He asked. "With the others?"

"Wednesday." Two days.


End file.
